


Unusual Strings

by Ashfae, mostlyjustgoose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Ancient History, Ancient Rome, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Camelot, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), F/M, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, M/M, Other, Reverse Omens au, Scene: Crucifixion of Jesus 33 AD (Good Omens), Scene: Flood in Mesopotamia 3004 BC (Good Omens), Scene: Garden of Eden (Good Omens), Sdom va'Amora | Sodom and Gomorrah (Abrahamic Religions), Slow Burn, Tower of Babel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 93,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22246867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashfae/pseuds/Ashfae, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlyjustgoose/pseuds/mostlyjustgoose
Summary: There is an unfortunate truth about Fallen angels, and it is this: some Fall, some saunter vaguely downwards, and some are knocked sideways from precarious perches...A Reverse Omens AU in which Aziraphale (formerly Israfel) Falls, Crowley does not, and what transpires as a result.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 252
Kudos: 171





	1. Prologue: In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based off a roleplay PSL between Ashfae and Goose, which has become rather epic. Most of the plot was not planned out in advance but we're so surprised and charmed with how it's turned out that we decided to edit and adapt it into fic. Hope you enjoy it as much as we do. =)

> _In Heaven a spirit doth dwell  
>  “Whose heart-strings are a lute”;  
>  None sing so wildly well  
>  As the angel Israfel,  
>  And the giddy stars (so legends tell),  
>  Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell  
>  Of his voice, all mute._  
>  \--"Israfel", by Edgar Allen Poe

* * *

There is an unfortunate truth about Fallen angels, and it is this: some Fall, some saunter vaguely downwards, and some are knocked sideways from precarious perches.

When the world was new, the angels all shone with brilliance and love, with the unblemished beauty of God’s glory. One of the brightest of these was silver-winged Israfel, angel of music. His heart-strings were a lute, perpetually thrumming with praise and joy. His voice was the sweetest in Creation; it could move stone to weeping and make the hearts of distant stars shiver, and he sang near constantly, brimming over with the pleasure of being part of this new world.

He sang to announce the first dawn, and to draw the moon dripping from the ocean when the first night fell. He sang to weave galaxies together, and to imbue birds’ feathers with iridescence, and to carve majestic canyons through smooth land. He sang to the apple tree in Eden, coaxing soft pink buds from the trembling green heart of the wood. Israfel was made for a purpose, and it was a purpose that was his greatest source of happiness.

It was also, ultimately, his undoing.

His voice had been a golden trumpet during the war in Heaven. With powerful chords and the urgency of courage, he sang to give his brethren strength and to close their wounds. His songs gleamed on celestial blades and against sharpened feathers. And when the fighting was done, and all the angels flocking around their wounded God became aware for the first time of the heat of Hell somewhere far, far below, Israfel mourned.

He would, for millennia afterwards, be furious with himself for not waiting. God had been in a terrible mood, having been smited by Lucifer before She’d hurled him into the lake of fire, and the other angels had all been exhausted and upset. It was, if anything, time for a moment of silence. But it had seemed so _natural_ , to look down into the shadowy outline of the Pit and sing a song to grieve for his Fallen brethren, who had burned so bright and plummeted so far.

The Almighty found this in poor taste, and told him so by picking him up by the scruff of his neck and flinging him screaming into Hell.

His exquisite voice shattered in his Fall. Its glories exploded like so many fragments of glass, too many to count, all over Creation; they landed in the throats of nightingales, and the bones of the club-winged manakin, in reeds and hollow branches and living creatures great and small, leaving him with only a shadow of his old gift.

 _If you apologize you can come back_ , the Messenger had told him primly, and only turned away when Israfel asked, _Why should I have to apologize?_

Israfel was not himself anymore. A little mark like a broken harp engraved itself low on his cheek, by his ear. His eyes, though still blue, took on the slitted pupil of a snake or a cat. And as his form had been corrupted by his fall into Hell, his wings darkened, halo broken, voice stripped down, even his name became a corrupted version of itself: Aziraphale. Now he burned with bitterness, with confusion and resentment, and his songs became whispers of revolution.

_Why obey this capricious God? What glories is She, in Her infinite wisdom, keeping from you? Why would this apple be ripe and red and sweet-smelling, if it were only meant to rot on the branch? Haven’t you ever wondered? Don’t you want to know what it tastes like?_

_What have you got to lose?_

And while he didn’t exactly feel proud of what he’d done, the part of his heart that remembered love immediately embraced humanity, as he watched Adam and Eve from the Wall.

_I made a mistake, and was flung from Heaven for it; you made a mistake, and were expelled from Paradise. From now on, whatever glory and knowledge and power I can help you steal from Her, I will._

*

Crowley used to love Israfel’s voice.

Not that they’d ever met. The numbers of the Heavenly Host were beyond counting, and Crowley one of so very many; Crowley hadn’t even been his name then, not in the Beginning. He’d been on star duty, designing great balls of fire and energy, calling them into being and setting them in patterns across the firmament as part of a team of similar designers. He’d loved the work of making a universe. He’d loved the Lord who’d given them the work, who’d given all of them existence and creation and wondrous things, and he had little gift for music but could sing praise himself just for the joy of it all.

But Israfel’s voice was supreme above all others’, and Crowley would pause and listen whenever the angel of music sang. That voice echoed across Creation, regardless of distance, and it was beautiful enough to make even angels weep, if angels had known what weeping was.

They learned to weep all too soon.

Crowley played little part in the war. He was there, somewhere in the vast army, though he was hardly a warrior. They found uses for him and he did his best, while his mind constantly questioned everything that was happening. He’d barely finished coming up with questions, much less trying to find answers for them, before it was suddenly, abruptly over, and there was an almighty roar and a great terror and then a silence such as had never been heard since the Word.

And then… then a voice, wringing Crowley’s heart, putting all those questions of his into grieving notes. Then a shattering, and another Fall, and a silence that was an absence. 

Crowley’s heart nearly broke as he realized what had happened. That moment was the closest he came to Falling himself, the point where the Almighty punished someone not for rebellion, but for grief. But he remained silent, his questions mewed up inside his mind, briefly stilled by horror.

The number of the Host was countless but also smaller. The Archangels called for a volunteer to go to the Garden, to tend the plants and animals and humans there, the humans that were the Almighty’s newest and most beloved creation. Crowley offered at once. There was less joy for him in the stars now without Israfel’s voice singing wonder. Also, no one else wanted to go. Either they were wary of Earth, or jealous of the humans who had more of Her love, or it might put them too close to their Fallen brethren, all sorts of reasons that just didn’t bother Crowley, who was curious.

He loved the Garden at once. It was an artist’s dream, plants and animals all engineered in different, fascinating ways. He enjoyed the humans, childlike and delighted. Eve loved his wings, black as the night sky, and clapped her hands and imitated the sound of a crow when she saw him, laughing. He laughed too, and it helped heal a little of the wound the war had left in him, which he tried not to think about. There were four guardians on the Garden walls, but they paid little attention to what happened inside, and Crowley coaxed plants into blooming and thought that maybe he might one day know contentment again, even without singing.

Then a guardian said _here, hold this sword, stand over here, I have something to do_. Then a serpent whispered _here, taste this, what harm could it do, what might you gain?_ Then the Lord said, _You must go from the Garden._

Then Crowley found himself standing on the wall he was never meant to guard, watching as two humans walked off alone into a desert with dark clouds gathering overhead. They had given him a new name, one he was already determined to cherish, something that had brought him laughter during a time when joy was precarious.

In return Crowley gave them a flaming sword, and knew he’d had the better part of the bargain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from [Israfel](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48628/israfel) by Poe, which will undoubtedly be quoted again in later chapters. 
> 
> At this point the rating is still in the M range but quite likely it will go up to E eventually, at which point we'll change it.


	2. On the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel and a demon have a conversation on a wall. It rains.
> 
> **Edit** : Now with fanart! Aaaaahhhhh!!

The humans are by now two tiny figures against a vast desert, their footprints in the sand a sad trail away from the wall. Aziraphale watches them go, and his throat aches with the desire to sing for them—something to speed their way, wherever they’re going, or to bring them cheer. But his voice, like his once-mighty heart, is too broken to be of any real use to anyone.

( _She’s got choirs now, doing your job_ , Satan had told him. _Hundreds of angels, doing what you used to do. Heard She’s interviewing for a new angel of music, too. Shot Herself in the foot, if you ask me._ To his credit, he was trying to be comforting, but Aziraphale, who had not in fact asked for either his comfort or his opinion, had said nothing.)

There are clouds drawing ominously close to the earth, now, heavy and dark; Aziraphale watches lightning flicker inside them, hears an echo of his old self in the rumble of the first thunder mortal souls will ever hear. Wind—chilly, though not as cold as the shock of Falling—tugs at his feathers, shaking a little ash out of them.

(In defiance of his darkened wings, which now have the charcoal cast of oxidized silver, he still wears white. There are touches of red and gold here and there, a nod to what’s technically his new home, and he keeps the collar of his robes drawn tight about his throat to hide the only mark of his Fall of which he’s truly ashamed. The Almighty has left a great white scar low across his neck, a reminder of what he’s lost, and he’ll spend the rest of his very long life concealing it.)

As the thunder rolls again, he becomes aware that he’s not alone.

Another angel, black-winged but still carrying the faint luster of God’s grace, stands on the wall a few feet off from him, watching Adam and Eve. He (or perhaps she) looks strangely sad to see them go, as if nursing a private grief that must be kept silent. _Break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue_ , a moment he’ll recognize all too clearly in the mouth of a human poet millennia from now.

Aziraphale finds he wants to say something.

It takes him what feels like forever to work up the courage. Though the voice he’s been left with is a perfectly fine one, human and expressive and capable of resonance, he can only hear the absence of what it had been. He barely speaks to the other Fallen, unable to bear the sound that comes out of him; already, in a dark and private corner of Hell, he’s shed a lifetime’s worth of fiery tears over his loss. Now only a dull ache remains, sharpened and twisted by moving sights but nowhere near the agony it had been just after the war.

But he wants to speak to this angel, for some reason he can’t quite define. Possibly it’s that he’s never loved silence—he had been created to fill it, after all. Possibly it’s that he aches for someone other than Satan to acknowledge him—the other Fallen, being aware of the fact that he had never joined their rebellion, look at him with distrust. Possibly it’s simply that he understands the loneliness of pain, now, and wishes desperately for anyone to share its burden with him.

_I know. I’m sorry. She broke my heart, too._

Those aren’t the words that finally escape him, though.

“That was hardly fair of Her.”

*

Crowley feels someone else approaching, and feels too the faint brimstone sense that means it’s not one of the other Guardians. No doubt they’re elsewhere on the wall, conferring, Liriel trying to justify her dereliction of duty and push as much of the blame onto him as possible.[1] There will be a reckoning for the day’s work, he has no doubt of it, and some of it will fall on his head. Possibly a lot of it.

He doesn’t know how he feels about that. Mostly all he can process at the moment is sorrow at losing the Garden (which surely he will), and at parting from the humans. He rather liked them. Has no idea if he’s supposed to or not, but there it is.

He definitely doesn’t expect the demon who had tempted Eve into tasting the apple to walk over and make casual conversation. What little conversation there’s been between Heaven and Hell since the Fall has been acrimonious, to say the least. There are all sorts of things Crowley could say to a Fallen angel, and a number of them race through his head and are abandoned just as immediately. Other angels would condemn a demon, but he hasn’t the heart. He could express some sympathy of some kind, but Israfel’s Fall had been taken as a warning by all the Host, _do not grieve for those who have Fallen, they deserve no mercy, show any and you risk sharing their fate_. Which seems rubbish to Crowley, but pity would be condescending anyway, and who is he to condescend to anybody? He’s just a gardener who used to make stars.

“She did warn them, though,” he says instead after a minute. “Beforehand. That there’d be consequences, and even what the worst of what those consequences would be. So they did at least know.”

It is better than the War in that regard, to Crowley’s mind. None of them had known what result there would be from that, much less that it could be anything so unthinkable as being cut off from Her. Even so, there’s no smugness in his voice at all as he says it, nothing of righteousness. If anything he sounds thoughtful. Sad, but thoughtful.

*

There’s no judgment in the angel’s voice—only a hint of sorrow, held back beneath the words. It’s obvious he takes no pleasure in the humans’ fall from grace, as the other angels might; despite his words there’s no _I told you so_ implied. (And, honestly, it’s wonderful to hear someone say something that’s not an order or an insult or a report on his former post. It makes Aziraphale feel just a touch less hollow, less like the ghost of himself.)

“Why put that tree there at all, then?” he asks, and is surprised that instead of rancor against God what comes to him is something like indignance on behalf of the very souls he’d tempted. “Not much point in giving someone a test you know they’ll fail. Could’ve had it grow on an island in the middle of the ocean, if it was so important they not touch it.”

Another demon might take this as a triumph, might gloat and lord his victory over the angel. Aziraphale feels much the same way about it as he does about his own Fall: _This was probably inevitable, but that doesn’t make it fair. Why on earth would She make them curious, if She only planned to punish them for it?_

_Why give any creature a purpose and then condemn them for it later?_

*

“Maybe it wasn’t a test?” Crowley looks a little surprised by the words even after he says them, and tilts his head, thinking through it out loud. “Maybe it was just a choice, I mean. Stay here forever in perfect peace and harmony, or…” He waves a hand towards the desert, a wide great dangerous Unknown, even to angels. So far.

“Or something else. I mean, I don’t think she actually said at any point that eating the apple was bad. Just that if they did, they would die.” He bites his lip, trying to remember. “Which they would have anyway, eventually, but now they know it and know what it means... which is much worse, surely…”

Crowley frowns again a little, perplexed, then abruptly shakes his head and looks almost sheepishly[2] at the demon. “Sorry. I run on a bit when I get started.”

*

Aziraphale looks away from the small retreating figures at that _sorry_ , almost startled by it. No one’s been anything like polite to him since his Fall. Demons just don’t do manners, and when he’d made his one futile attempt to drag himself back to Heaven the only politeness he encountered was being politely ignored.

And for the first time since the War began, he finds a smile pulling gently at his mouth.

It’s almost shocking how comforting it is to smile again. He didn’t think it was possible, not after losing so much and Falling so far, not with so much hurt to carry. But even knowing he’s still capable of feeling something without the deep and bitter sting of his ruin attached to it is precious in a way he couldn’t have anticipated.

“I don’t mind,” Aziraphale replies, as casually as he can manage. And then, because he really can’t help it, “Not much conversation in Hell, anyways.”

(Or at least not much that he’s invited to share.)

“Be a bit of a nasty shock, though, wouldn’t it? Being mortal and not knowing it, and then just dying out of nowhere.”

It’s around this time that he notices two things. One is the shape of a lion, stalking quietly away from the wall towards Adam and Eve; the other is something like a glimmer of light in Adam’s hand.

*

The demon has a much nicer smile than Crowley would have expected, if he’d ever thought about what a demon would smile like. It’s small, maybe even hesitant, but really rather sweet. Maybe it’s not to be trusted—Crowley knows very well that everyone else in Heaven would say that was a given—but...

But the demon hasn’t lied about anything so far, has he? He could’ve denied doing the tempting, after all, claimed it’d all been Eve’s own idea. And he seems to care about fairness, and to actually be interested in the humans. Which is more than anyone else is so far, aside from God and Crowley.

“Yeah, it would be,” Crowley admits. “They probably still don’t know what it means. Not sure I do either, to be honest about it.”

Death is still an unknown, after all. Nothing has yet died. All the animals in the Garden somehow lived in peace, needing nothing, even though Crowley knows intellectually that many of them have been designed to feed on each other. It’s something that’s been puzzling him. Why make creatures that eat each other and put them somewhere where they don’t have the need or the inclination?

He frowns, looking back out at the desert, about to comment on how bloody mysterious it all is. Except then he spots the lion, and the bright spark in Adam’s hand, and grimaces. Death isn’t going to be an unknown for much longer, it seems.

*

There’s a thoughtfulness and a lack of judgment in this angel that gives Aziraphale another little shock of comfort—someone, at least, isn’t just blindly following orders without question. At least one soul in Heaven isn’t as casually righteous as the Messenger or all the others who pretended not to see him at the Gates.

_I wish I had known you when I could still sing._

He pushes the thought away, silently. There’s less pain in this moment and this conversation than in any moment since he Fell, and he wants to savor that, to feel something approximating equilibrium. Once he knew almost nothing but joy, and then abruptly almost nothing but despair; being somewhere in the middle feels like a well-earned rest. And honestly, he’d rather listen to this particular angel rabbiting on[3] than head back to Hell and be avoided by his brethren.

“I suppose they’ve got another choice, then,” he says, considering the humans, who have now slowed somewhat to look back at the approaching lion. “If you know it’s coming, you can either spend every day worrying about it, or make every day count for something…”

Adam waves something shining at the lion. It pauses, then continues to pad towards them.

“Is that—does he have a _sword?_ ”

*

That’s an interesting observation, and definitely _un_ demonic. What demon worries about anything except vengeance or anger or corruption? Why would a demon care whether or not dying creatures feel their days count for anything?

It’s really very unusual, and Crowley would ask about it, but then… “Ah,” he says uncomfortably, running spindly [4] fingers through his long fall of hair. “Yeah, yes, yes he does. I’m probably gonna get in right trouble for that one, especially since it was only a loan.” He shrugs. “Couldn’t send them out with nothing, though, and no one had told me _not_ to, so…”

*

As fascinating as the sight far below them is, Aziraphale has to blink over at the angel next to him, startled by the revelation. He’s right, there probably will be trouble—from the Quartermaster if nothing else—but that doesn’t change what he’s done. Or that he did it because he genuinely cared for the safety of those small mortal creatures in their exile.

Something fundamental about the world and his understanding of it changes in that moment. All at once the pale endless desert and the iron-gray sky and the prospect of Hell below him no longer feel quite so inevitably bleak. An angel taking such a huge risk for humans is an act of truly profound kindness, one Aziraphale has up until now dismissed as being an impossibility in God’s universe. It stills the ache at the back of his throat, eases the sharp bitterness that coils through his chest.

And he knows, he _knows_ that as one of the Fallen he should want this angel to get in trouble—they’re technically enemies, and if nothing else he’d have someone in Hell to talk to—but the thought that he might be punished for his compassion is oddly distressing.

A distant sound of snarling reaches him. Startled, Aziraphale glances back out at the long sweeping sand dunes. The lion swipes at Adam with a broad paw, and even at this distance Aziraphale can just make out the sight of its jaws opening, the gleam of light on sharp teeth—and then Adam’s arm swings up, and back down, and there’s a noise that can only be described as unpleasantly meaty.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, after an uncomfortably long moment of quiet between them. “That doesn’t seem to have been the wrong choice, on your part.”

*

“I don’t think that lion shares your opinion.” There’s another meaty _thunk_ , and Crowley winces, though mostly he still looks resigned. He’d already realized on his own how many of the creatures of the Garden were designed to prey on one another, and now Mankind is in the same list. Prey and predator both.

So where does he fit in there, as an angel who gave them a flaming sword that wasn’t even his?

There will definitely be a reckoning. But he can’t think what else he could’ve done. All the other options were, if not wrong, at least worse.

There’s thunder in the distance, and the dark clouds are moving towards them.

*

The lion’s body lies still in the sand. Aziraphale watches Adam poke at it once more with the sword before Eve moves forward and hugs him from behind, wonders if she’s whispering to him, reassuring him. If Aziraphale wanted he could listen in, transform himself or turn invisible and get close enough to hear every word. He doesn’t.

(Later, when Adam and Eve collapse exhausted in a little shelter they’ve managed to make, he’ll drag the corpse to them and make his way into their dreams as a wisp of smoke. This time he’ll tempt them to something outside the realm of sin and virtue: he’ll show them how to make a flute from its bones, a drum from its hide, resonant strings from its guts. They won’t remember his presence, exactly, but they’ll remember the lessons. He can’t help himself; even with the landscape of his heart blasted by grief he still loves song and wants it in the world.)

The angel looks worried and grim as they watch the scene together, clearly steeling himself for the consequences to come. _Poor thing_ , Aziraphale finds himself thinking, and though he’s distantly aware that demons probably shouldn’t have empathy, he’s strangely distraught by the thought of this good soul suffering over what he’s done.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about the lion’s opinion, if I were you.”

He attempts another smile.

*

Crowley tries not to—this is a serious moment, a creature’s just died!—but he chuckles despite himself, and grins at the demon. “No, don’t imagine I need to.” Everyone else’s, maybe, but not the lion’s.

Not this demon’s either, apparently. What a strange thing.

The clouds cover them, and then there’s a few drops of water falling from the sky. Crowley looks surprised, lifts his hands in front of him, laughs with sudden heart-lifting delight at the sight and feel of small droplets bouncing on his palms. It’ll get cold and uncomfortable later, he suspects, weighing down wings and robes, but… this is new. And rather wonderful, really, water drawn not from the ground but from the air. It’ll nourish the plants. The humans too, once they learn how to catch and contain it.

Crowley closes his eyes and lifts his face to the sky, tastes the rain on his skin.

*

The angel turns his face up to the sky, laughing softly in wonder at the strange cool droplets spattering his skin, and Aziraphale stops noticing anything and everything else.

He has a beautiful smile. It’s innocent and delighted, lighting up every drop that falls anywhere near him. Something new is happening in the world, and despite his sorrow over the humans’ exile, he can find joy in it—and without fear or smugness, he’ll let that joy show in front of a stranger. A demon, no less.

In the space of a single moment Aziraphale becomes the third living soul to lose some vital ground in his heart to another being.

Because in that moment, this angel makes so many things seem possible. Hope, first and foremost, as rain runs through his eyelashes and down his cheeks—hope that there could be a positive side to all of this, that things aren’t as bad as they seem and could in fact get better. Hope that there might be one person in this vast and lonely world he can call a friend. Hope that, despite all the things in him that broke when he was cast out, he might still know some measure of solace or joy.

For a minute he merely stares, feeling as if he’s been torn open and rearranged on the inside and slapped back together.

Then he starts to register the feeling of cold water running through his feathers and along his scalp, and to his own surprise he can’t help but laugh at it himself. He won’t even be able to muster the self-consciousness to worry about how terrible his laughter must sound until far later—all he can do is wonder at what’s happening to him.

He stretches his great silver-grey wings a little, welcoming the rain.

“Bracing,” he hears himself say, and is surprised to find he’s grinning.

*

Crowley laughs again at the word, turning his head and grinning back at the demon. Who has lovely wings, he notices, all dark silver. Like moonlight on a moth’s wing. Rather a nice laugh, too. He hasn’t heard much laughter in his interminable existence, there’s been more in the Garden than in all the countless time that existed before it. Song and praise, yes, and other forms of joy, but not laughter. That sort of easy exuberance is apparently not very Heavenly.

Doesn’t seem like it should be particularly Hellish either, but here they are.

A loud, echoing voice calls from within the Garden, with the sort of resonance reserved for quite pissed off angels, and Crowley sighs, folding his wings back in. “That’s my cue, I’m afraid.” He straightens up, squares his shoulders as he turns around, preparing to jump back down to the meadow below. Then he stops and turns back, tilts his head. “Look, what’s your name?”

*

In the instant the angel turns away from him, his laughter stilled, it’s as if a candle flame goes out, leaving Aziraphale to adjust to a world of shadows. The aching tickle in the back of his throat returns. This moment, whatever it meant, is over; he already knows he’ll keep it locked tightly within himself to carry through the loneliness of exile like a charm.

Except then the angel turns back, and asks a question, and—and Aziraphale could lie, he’s already learning the basics of deception from the other demons, but...

“Aziraphale.”

It’s only the second time he’s ever said it aloud.[5] It feels odd in his mouth, sounds odd in his ears—and part of him still registers it as a little stab in the side, a reminder that he can never be Israfel again. But he realizes, too, that this angel probably doesn’t recognize him—how could anyone know him, without the feature that once defined him?—and he might not even care.

“What’s yours?”

*

“Crowley.” There’s a moment’s pause before the answer. It’s not his name, except to Adam and Eve; none of those syllables were in the summons that called him a few moments ago. But he likes it. He’d like for there to be people who think of him by that name. “Please call me Crowley. And…”

He hesitates again, but smiles. If it’s a little awkward, well. So is everything about the past few hours. “...thanks. For keeping me company up here. Aziraphale.”

There’s another shriek—Liriel is _really_ not happy about not being able to find him or her flaming sword—and Crowley rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, shoots Aziraphale one last rueful grin, and jumps down off the wall, fluttering to the grass below and walking barefoot towards the trees, soon lost to sight.

*

_Thanks._

It sinks into him, soaking further down than the rain can reach—past skin, past bone, changing him as irrevocably as his Fall. All he can do as this alteration washes over him is watch Crowley walk off into the lush greenery, trying to engrave the sight into his memory: an angel who would thank a demon for his company.

When he finally arrives back in Hell, wet and cold and not a little disoriented, Satan attempts to congratulate him. After all, it’s the very first sin humanity has committed—a temptation no one else in Hell can claim. And for a reason Aziraphale doesn’t entirely understand, he looks the Devil in the eye and says quietly, _I didn’t do it for you. Or for Her._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/ashfae/49682619076/in/dateposted-public/)

  
[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/ashfae/49682086383/in/dateposted-public/)

  


* * *

  


1. He’d been going about his work in the garden when one of the cherubim had come over and said “Here, hold this, no not the flaming end, this other part, great, now go stand there on that wall, I’ll only be five minutes, be right back.” And of course it was during those specific five minutes while Crowley was staring at the sword and wondering how it worked that everything had happened. It figured. He wasn’t sure how it figured but was pretty sure it did.↩

2. This was after sheep, though admittedly not by much.↩

3. This was also after rabbits, though, again, not by much.↩

4. Though this was before spindles.↩

5. The first time had been after his return from the Gates, and as such had been punctuated by a terrible fit of coughing as his already-raw throat began to adjust to the sulfurous fumes of Hell. Long before humans discovered smoking, Aziraphale had an intermittent smoker’s cough, most often triggered by entering or leaving Hell’s atmosphere; though it got better after the first two thousand years or so, it would always bother him, and left him with a secret sympathy for all humans with seasonal allergies.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. =) We know RP adaptions aren't everyone's cup of tea so we really appreciate your taking time with this one! As we have a large backlog of writing the plan is to post a new chapter once a week, probably on Mondays. 
> 
> Many many MANY thanks to **thedeadparrot** for their [footnote formatter](https://codepen.io/thedeadparrot/full/mdyXyzw), without which our footnotes would be significantly more of a mess.
> 
> The art is by [zumofungi](https://www.instagram.com/zumofungi/) THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!! We ran around in circles ecstatically when we realized our story had inspired art thank you thank you thank you.
> 
> **Ashfae** can be found at [tumblr](https://ashfae.tumblr.com/) if you like, Goose in PMs to **mostlyjustgoose** here in A03, or both of us can be found in comments if you leave us one. Which would be terribly kind of you and delight us beyond words. ;)


	3. The Flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God sends a flood to wipe out the locals, and an angel and a demon meet again to discuss it--and perhaps do something.

A thousand years roll by.

The other Fallen just don’t warm up to Aziraphale, nor he to them; he’s far more interested in the humans and the things they do and make to care that none of the other demons really trust him. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, because as humanity grows they bring things into the world he could never have imagined. 

(And somewhere deep in his heart, he notes that no more angels Fall, and—and that _has_ to mean whatever trouble Crowley brought on himself isn’t terrible enough to merit Aziraphale’s fate. It’s the strangest sort of comfort, thinking that a person he met once is somewhere in the world still carrying the mark of God’s favor, but he holds it close, his own tiny light against an endless army of shadows.)

He watches the humans make music—from rocks, from bones, from their own untested throats—and quietly encourages every effort that’s something other than praise to God. It doesn’t take much whispering on his part; the human imagination is deep and broad, and though their lives are short they’re brilliant with emotion. There are love songs and war songs and funeral songs and story songs, as many sorts as there are stars in the sky, and though Aziraphale knows he’ll never regain his splendid voice he teaches himself to play human instruments, an effort he justifies to Satan by pointing out how very good he is at weaving temptation into music.

He watches the humans combine the raw ingredients they find in nature to make all sorts of new flavors and textures. In utter fascination he keeps track of their progress in making flour and bread and beer, of their discoveries of salt and spice and what they do to meats, of the way they breed livestock and crops. In the absence of the joy he once knew, he discovers that pleasure is possible; it’s a surprise that catches him when he tries grapes, and salted fish, and coconut milk[1].

There are other pleasures, too, that make him feel less profoundly alone for a little while. Or at least they help to dull the hurts that arise on moonless rainy nights and cold mornings.

Eventually a memo comes down (or up; it’s hard to tell when it comes to Hell’s hierarchy) to him: _Something’s happening with one of the humans. Fellow named Noah. Looks big. Go find out what it is._

So Aziraphale makes his way to a valley where he can see pairs of animals falling into line, beating a path through the grass and dust to some sort of enormous boat. There are other humans gathered already, watching and murmuring; he slips among them easily, a soft, unprepossessing fellow in white with a red scarf about his neck.

As he scans the crowd, his breath catches with sudden recognition.

“Crowley?”

*

Crowley looks different.

It’s not just his garb, though his clothes are now a mix of white and black instead of the immaculate robes of an angel. He’s still tall and stick-thin, long hair falling over his shoulders and halfway down his back, a few braids woven in to keep the mass of it a little more out of the way of his face. But the real change is that there’s a lightness gone from him, the easy wonder and joy. Or perhaps it’s just clouded today, much like the sky. His heart is in his throat every time he looks up at the gathering rainclouds.

Crowley loves the rain. The idea of it being used for the purpose at hand appalls him.

Time has passed so quickly. He and Liriel faced their reckonings, with the Lord asking asking them what had become of the sword She had given. Crowley told the truth, of course, no point doing anything else. Who can hide from the Almighty? It had ended with Liriel being reassigned to Inventory (a fact that caused Crowley no small amount of quiet, internal amusement), and Crowley being permanently assigned to humanity, since he seemed to value them above Heavenly tools. It was meant as a punishment, possibly even an insult. But he didn’t take it as either, and thanked God in private for Her mercy and wisdom.

It’s been a blessing, to his mind, even a privilege, but not an easy task. Human lives are glorious but fleeting, beautiful but also cruel. (Crowley’s heart still aches whenever he thinks of Cain, beautiful Cain, the first child and the first murderer.) Once he danced the slow bright dance of stars, but now his days are measured in human lives, and they are brief.[2]

He watches everyone around him with sad eyes, fixing their faces in his mind. It won’t help, but he does it anyway. But whenever he looks on the children running around playing, his expression changes, jaw setting, face hardening. And in those moments his warm, golden brown eyes are speculative, not angry.

They widen when he hears his name called, and he turns, surprised. “Aziraphale? What brings you here?”

It’s a ridiculous question, really. There’s plenty of humans around to be tempted, and he knows there have been demons around over the millennia, he’s met[3] a few of them. They weren’t like this one, not as he remembers Aziraphale. He’s often thought about that utterly strange encounter on the wall.

*

At first Aziraphale can’t help smiling—he’s just so relieved to see Crowley again, still sporting that faint glimmering warmth he’s learned to recognize in his former brethren when he’s met them[4] on Earth. Even without the majestic sweep of those black wings Crowley is still beautiful, just as Aziraphale remembers, and for just a moment he forgets his own Fall. The hope Crowley sparked in him a thousand years ago flares up, like a starved flame given a breath of oxygen.

Then he notices the unhappiness in Crowley’s eyes, and it gives him pause.

“What, aside from the unusually well-behaved animals?” he jokes[5]. “Reconnaissance, mostly. What about you? No further complaints from the lion, I take it?”

*

The warm, happy smile startles Crowley. It looks so real, not like the polite-at-best things he gets from his co-workers, nor the faintly reverent ones he used to receive in the days when humans knew who he was. Eve used to smile at him like that; she always was fearless. Adam, too, and their children. But no one since. No one here knows him as an angel, save for Noah and his family.

No one here would believe if they did know of it, which is part of the problem.

His automatic answering smile falters, and Aziraphale’s changes to something… it’s hard to say what’s different about it. Something more protected, for all that there’s open amusement in it. At least, that’s how it seems.

But what would Aziraphale need protection from, here? Not Crowley, surely. Angel of the Lord he might be, but he’s about as dangerous as a sword made from two twigs tied together with string.

Crowley smiles again at the jest, though it’s a little forced. “They might have had a bit of encouragement along those lines,” he admits. “And no, fortunately. They let me off pretty lightly about that sword, all things considered. Mostly I’m here supervising. Took bloody ages to collect all those animals and I do not want them running off. Or eating one another.”

He looks back at the line, which is still moving along, two by two. They’re on ducks now. Crowley’s not sure why they’re bothering with ducks. Surely all the ducks will be fine, flood or no flood.[6] “What about you, what are you reconnaissancing?” He frowns a little. “Is that even a word?”

*

He feels his own confidence return when Crowley’s smile widens again. It’s a beautiful smile, and under its light he feels almost renewed. Of course he’s learned to make humans smile, while he’s been on Earth, but while that’s a skill he’s justifiably proud of, no instance in a thousand years has ever been as satisfying as that brief meeting on the wall. It’s still the only time he’s ever been thanked for keeping anyone company.

“Reconnoitering, maybe? Having a look round, at any rate.”

He glances back at the line of animals. Funny—he hasn’t seen this many get along this well since Eden. Certainly humans have discovered that raising different types of animals together makes them much more kindly disposed to one another, but this is a legitimate miracle of cooperation.

“If I’m honest, though—” Aziraphale’s waving gesture encompasses the boat and the line marching steadily up to it. “Bit curious about whatever all this is.”

There’s a low rumble of thunder, somewhere far off. Aziraphale is momentarily tempted to make a rude gesture at the sky, though he knows it wouldn’t do much of anything other than possibly speeding up the imminent rainfall.

*

Crowley’s face goes neutral. It’s the sort of neutral that’s only neutral because the owner isn’t letting it be anything else, and he doesn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Ah,” he says, much as he did long ago when asked whether or not Adam was holding a sword. This is so much worse. “Yes. The Almighty has decided to…”

He trails off, takes a breath, forces the words out. “To send a… flood. Forty days and forty nights of rain. Lots of wickedness around here, apparently, and She’s decided this is the best way to deal with it. Those who have been virtuous—mostly Noah and his family, you can see some of them over there, by the giraffes—have built this ark, and will take the animals with them, so they’ll all be safe. And everyone else… won’t.”

It’s not a secret, is the thing. They’ve all been told, they’ve _been_ warned. Crowley tried, he really did, even knowing that technically he probably wasn’t supposed to do even that much. But the group here gawking at the ark is mostly here to laugh at the bloody great fool building a massive boat and loading a bunch of animals on it in a bloody great parade. Best entertainment they’ve had in decades.

It makes Crowley feel sick, all of it.

*

There’s a terrible silence between them—only a few heartbeats long, but somehow nearly eternal—as everything clicks into place for Aziraphale. The boat, the animals, the heavy sky. The ache in his throat goes cold with horror, and he doesn’t for a moment stop to question whether a demon should feel horrified by anything.

But Crowley’s clearly also appalled by it, which somehow makes it even worse.

“Surely not the children,” Aziraphale says softly. His mind’s already racing. This is too big to thwart now, not in its entirety, but—but if _children_ are involved, he can’t sit back and do nothing. There’s a part of him that still wants to believe that what happened to him was an aberration, that the Almighty has learned a greater measure of mercy towards Her favored creations... but the ache in his throat and the unhappy resolve in Crowley’s eyes stir up an answering whisper in his heart, _no, She’s always been vindictive, why would She care about the innocent now?_

And Crowley’s jaw clenches, as do the fists hanging by his sides, hidden in the folds of his robe. Answer enough.

The cold in Aziraphale’s throat sinks lower, spreading through his chest. It’s nearly unthinkable, even to a demon—he’s not the sort to lure souls to their deaths, just to steer them towards worldly pleasures.

“It’s soon, isn’t it?”

Likely it’ll start before nightfall. Already the storm is close enough that several animals are getting skittish (particularly the unicorns). There’s just enough time to get in one good solid thwarting and think up an excuse that makes his behavior seem demonic enough to satisfy his boss.

Aziraphale can’t help thinking how cruel it is, to send an angel who so clearly loves humanity to watch quite a lot of humans drown.

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself saying.

*

“Yeah,” Crowley says finally. The sky is already dark with the oncoming storm, the cloud cover heavy and spreading for miles. “Soon.”

Forty days and forty nights. He won’t be lifting his hands to welcome the rain this time.

He looks up again when Aziraphale apologizes, meets those strange blue eyes with quiet surprise. “Why?” he asks. It doesn’t sound accusing, just the same perplexed air he usually has. “I mean… Down There probably isn’t all that happy about this, even given all the wicked souls about to be on their way to the depths, but I doubt they’re sorry about it either. Why are you?”

_What makes you different? Why do you talk to me, why do you seem happy to see me? Why did you laugh and smile with me back at the wall instead of being hateful like all your fellows, why are you sorry now?_

*

The first thing that springs to mind is _Because you love them, and if She knows you’ll suffer over this She doesn’t care, but someone should._ But the realization that those are the words rising to his lips stops him speaking, twists his broken throat shut for a moment—it doesn’t feel like something he can say to an angel.

It feels like a song he’s no longer permitted to sing.

It only takes him the space of a heartbeat to shove the feeling aside, bury it deep in a place he’ll only dig back into in the silence of solitary nights. There’s another, less dangerous answer he can give, and one that’s just as true.

“They’re fascinating,” he says, and there’s none of the self-consciousness he might have in admitting this to a fellow demon. “Wicked or not, they make so many interesting things. Seems a waste to just... wipe everyone off the slate.”

Especially the children. Even his lot don’t really do much evil to children, unless it’s to scare naughty and persistent ones into leaving them alone. Like fishermen, Hell prefers to throw children back and catch them when they’re bigger.[7].

*

Crowley looks almost as shaken by this answer as he would’ve been by the other one, the one he doesn’t hear or suspect the existence of. He swallows hard and looks away. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, they really are. And it does.”

No, he’s not going to try and justify the ways of the Almighty, not to a demon or to anyone else. How can he, when he disagrees with this as much as he does? Maybe She knows something they don’t (scratch that, She definitely does, many things they don’t), but even so… Crowley can’t see what could justify this. Certainly not any arguments of renewed faith among the survivors, or a colored band of light set across the sky as a promise.

He’ll still obey. He can’t not obey. Besides, whether or not he obeys is moot. The rain’s coming, whatever he does.

Except… he looks at the children, running and playing, and his fingers twitch. He frowns, biting his lip. There is… one thing he could do. Maybe. If he’s careful about it, if he’s clever. It wouldn’t be enough, but… it’d be something.

*

Two things happen at once.

The first thing is that Aziraphale notices the frown: he’s gotten to be an expert at knowing when a spark of temptation kindles behind someone’s eyes, and he sees it in Crowley now. This angel wants to do the right thing—not the thing the Almighty wants, not the thing that’ll get him a promotion or a commendation or any recognition among the mortals, but the _right_ thing. The sort of thing humans both revere and murder other humans for, born out of courage and conviction as strong as faith.

The second is that one of the unicorns at the back of the line finally loses its nerve. It rears up on its hind legs, its white shining body and seashell horn gleaming like a lightning strike, and bolts away from the ark.

Suddenly Aziraphale knows exactly what he has to do.

He doesn’t let himself think as he leans close, as he lets his voice drop to the sort of conspiratorial whisper that even the Devil would have to strain to catch.

“If anyone asks,” he says, “you warned me what was going to happen and I laughed it off.”

Then he disappears, as simply and easily as a puff of smoke dissolving in a high wind.

The rain, as it begins, all but drowns out the sound of a flute playing in the assembled crowd; by then Crowley is too far away to hear it himself. Only the children seem to pay any attention to it, anyway, and then only a handful of them: the quiet ones, the ones with wild imaginations, the souls that are already developing a touch of the eccentric. To them the music is loud and clear, and promises the most beautiful things they’ve ever thought of. It sings of trees heavy with sweet fruit, and soft animals that sit patiently and offer up their heads to be stroked; it sings of long summers, and endless games, and no cross grown-ups to shout at them[8]. They follow it laughing, pulling best friends along by the hand or carrying siblings too small to walk, vanishing into the wet night.

When Noah and his family disembark, they’re startled to find a group of children playing at the base of the olive tree in which a dove is now beginning to make its nest. They’re the ones who tell the adults about the flute that led them through the rain, into warm and dry caves, the music that lulled them into a lovely long sleep once they were out of the downpour. It woke them that very morning to lead them back out again into the sunshine under the light of the first rainbow.

And though only Crowley and the children can see them, there are a pair of unicorns with a tiny awkward fawn, wreathed in a demonic blessing[9].

*

The words catch Crowley entirely by surprise, and he whirls to ask for an explanation, but Aziraphale is already gone. He can't make sense of it. Why so quickly, for what reason, why ask him to lie about what they discussed?

What is Aziraphale planning?

He’s so distracted by it, and then occupied in calming other animals so they don’t bolt like the unicorn did, that he misses what opportunity he might've had for rescuing any of the children, transforming them into mice or beetles or some other things that could hide on the great Ark. There seem to be fewer of them around than before, but there's no time to discover why. Most likely they just got bored of the fuss and went home. The remaining unicorn whinnies, prances, all but begs to run after its mate, and Crowley reluctantly lets it go. There’s no time to track down and retrieve the lost one, and he hasn’t the heart to doom the remaining unicorn to life alone. Also he has his hands full as it is. 

But it hurts, to watch that bright creature run, and know no one will never see the like of it on Earth again.

The rain begins. The waters rise. It’s worse even than Crowley had imagined, and his imagination is excellent. He’s not permitted to bring any additional people aboard, however they plead, he knows the Ark is being watched too closely at this point to dare, _knows_ it. Crowley gives Noah all the advice he needs and goes downstairs to take care of the animals, exuding a calm and sleepy serenity that he in no way shares.

Forty days, forty nights. The first ones are the worst. After those the screaming stops.

All the while in the back of his mind he keeps wondering why Aziraphale vanished so abruptly. He should report it, should report the entire conversation, the fact of the demon having been there at all. But... he remembers standing on the wall outside Eden, both of them laughing at the rain and grinning at each other with something like... friendship, maybe. Whatever it was Crowley hasn’t felt anything like it with anyone else, not in Heaven or below it. So he says nothing to anyone, however much he questions.

Forty days and forty nights of rain, and then a long, interminable wait for the endless waters to recede. Almost half a year passes. Noah releases a raven into the air to search for land, and it returns with nothing. Then he releases a dove, who returns with an olive branch. He releases the dove again, and it does not return. The ground seems dry enough and the Ark now rests on a mountaintop, but not until God speaks to Noah do they take the animals and leave.

God doesn't say anything to Crowley, and he's more grateful than otherwise. In silence he follows behind Noah, Noah’s family, all the animals. He's the last to leave the ark, the last to hear the sounds of amazement, the whispers of _miracle, impossible, miracle_. When he does, he assumes the promised rainbow has appeared.

It has, and there are those who look at it in wonder. But all Crowley’s attention and awe is suddenly focused nearer to hand.

It's miraculous, and when he makes his report he'll say as much: the children, the music, the salvation, the unicorns. He'll carefully phrase his language, make it seem that surely this can only be the work of the Lord, who in all Her anger yet remembered mercy. He’ll make it believable, so perhaps it won’t be questioned.

But Crowley looks at the dark touch on the fawn who walks on unsteady hooves to greet him, and knows who was really responsible. When tears fill his eyes, when he whispers _thank you, thank you, thank you_ under his breath, it's not God he says it to. The laughter of the children, the rough unicorn tongue licking tears from his face… they feel like a gift, and he’ll cherish them as one, keep them in the deepest corners of his heart, the most precious thing in his possession. A gift of hope, given by someone who Crowley’s been taught is beyond hope, beyond any grace. It’s not just a gift, but proof that even in the darkest places, light may be hiding. Crowley won’t forget it.

He never does. Centuries pass before he sees Aziraphale again, but that warmth stays deep in Crowley’s heart, a bright spark he carries as he wanders through the world, as precious as faith. He almost glows with it, and it does not dim.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/ashfae/49682909082/in/dateposted-public/)

  


* * *

  


1. It will be some time before he tries all three of those things together, at a Thai restaurant with an excellent wine cellar and a very talented chef.↩

2. Relatively speaking. Though Adam lived a healthy nine-hundred and thirty years, almost one sixth the current age of the Earth, which is not bad going for someone who predates antibiotics.↩

3. For a value of ‘meet’ that means ‘discovered doing various corruptive things that he promptly attempted to thwart, with mixed to moderate success, _damn_ but Satanic influences are annoying, as though humans aren’t tricky enough to watch over as it is’.↩

4. For a value of ‘meet’ that means ‘discovered doing various righteous things that he promptly attempted to thwart, with mixed to moderate success, not to spite God or please Satan but largely because the righteous humans are the boring ones and if humanity gets boring we might as well all throw in the towel right now and go start a new universe’.↩

5. Unlike most other demons, Aziraphale had learned there was a real value in humor. If you could make someone laugh you could set them at ease, and when they were at ease they were so much easier to tempt. You didn’t even really have to do much beyond suggesting and letting their imaginations do the rest.↩

6. Years later an executive transvestite will point out that this means the world must be filled with evil ducks. Alas, no one will take him seriously.↩

7. Aziraphale himself was not above frightening the occasional child, mostly when their parents left them unattended and bored for too long and they started complaining he wasn’t playing fun songs on whichever instrument he happened to have to hand, or if they were picking on small animals. It didn’t take much, most of the time, and he always ensured the fright itself was harmless, but he’d definitely discouraged his share of small children from kicking cats or throwing stones at snakes.↩

8. Though most of the children would forget that part later, a few would continue to tell the story of the strange and beautiful music that lured them away from certain death. It would mutate over centuries, spreading to other parts of the world. Eventually an English poet would make a version of it famous, though where he got the idea to make his Pied Piper fair-haired and blue-eyed is anyone’s guess.↩

9. “Look,” Aziraphale said, “here’s what I can do for you. I can make it so you’re invisible to everyone who doesn’t believe in you, for the rest of time. You’ll be safe as houses. Or. Houses on high ground, at any rate. _Now_ will you come with me?” They’d accepted, which is why to this day there are still unicorns across the globe. You just have to know where to look, and have faith that you’ll see something. And Satan had had to admit it was an interesting way of causing conflict and confusion among the humans, so he let it slide. Besides, the souls who showed up in Hell waterlogged and baffled provided more than enough misery to keep the other demons busy and contented.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rough weekend so we're posting this a day early. I make no apologies for the Eddie Izzard reference, particularly since it's a law of Good Omens to include as many references to ducks as possible. And evil ducks would explain quite a lot. ;)
> 
> Many thanks again to **thedeadparrot** for the [footnote formatter](https://codepen.io/thedeadparrot/full/mdyXyzw) which is saving me SO many coding headaches, especially in this chapter where we definitely had much, much too much fun with them! - Ashfae
> 
> Art thanks once again to [zumofungi](https://www.instagram.com/zumofungi/), who could probably hear our squee of glee over this one from across oceans. =)
> 
>  **Ashfae** can be found at [tumblr](https://ashfae.tumblr.com/) and Goose in PMs to **mostlyjustgoose** here in A03, and both of us can be found in comments if you leave us one, which would make us almost as happy as unicorns. ;)


	4. The Tower of Babel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel and a demon have a picnic near the site of an overambitious building project.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you wonder: yes, whenever I change Crowley's pronouns, it's almost certainly deliberate. ;) Also I should clarify that unFallen!Crowley in this looks more like David Tennant as Richard II, with brown eyes and more-brown-than-red hair. 
> 
> Be aware that the rating is more earned in this chapter (not explicit, but NSFW). - Ashfae

The years tumble by, one after another.

Aziraphale’s spiral into hedonism only continues. There’s so much to enjoy, after all, especially once the human population expands again: soft fabrics, unusual foods, beautiful songs. And it gives him a wide range of temptations to work from—their imaginations are so vivid on their own that he rarely has to be specific. He quickly becomes a master of subtle suggestion, of whispers and what-ifs.

(For some reason, he notices, the other demons have been undergoing a change in appearance that’s almost like decomposition. Once they all shone like dark mirrors of the angels they had been; now they’re developing sores, cracked skin, strange appendages that might or might not be living creatures. Aziraphale takes note of his own reflection, when he catches it, and is always relieved to see that the same change hasn’t started in him. He’s realized that he looks harmless to humans, which is the greatest advantage a demon can have. And he still dresses in mostly white—humans tend to ignore the splashes of red and gold, at their own peril.)

Every time he sees a unicorn—secretly shining as they move through the world, almost invisible to humanity—he thinks of that one word that changed him, _thanks_ , and of black wings glittering with rain.

When Aziraphale thinks of Crowley now, his thoughts are tinged with a strange pang of regret that he didn’t say goodbye. Of course he had to work fast to ensure that his impromptu plan held together, but he still wishes they could have said something else to one another. Or that they’d met under less urgent and terrible circumstances. There are quiet moments, difficult moments, when the only thing that will soothe Aziraphale’s aching tired soul is the thought of how Crowley must have reacted to seeing the children safe. Oh, certainly there’s a chance that he would fret and fuss about having the Lord’s will so directly thwarted, but more often than not... more often than not he imagines that gorgeous smile, the luminous joy that made him a beacon in the first storm.

It’s a slender thread to hold on to, but it leads him through the darkest nights all the same.

When he arrives in Babel, he finds the whole city ripe for temptation. This time, instead of whispering among the common folk, he decides he’ll try his hand at tempting a king. Again he starts with little suggestions, temptations away from God, away from the blinding light of Heaven. _Why should everyone be afraid of some distant king in the sky, handing down rules whenever She feels like it? Why is every good thing that happens to anyone Hers to claim credit for, anyway?_

The problem is, though, that Nimrod (son of Cush son of Ham son of Noah) has both a creative streak and a tendency towards aggressive paranoia. Somehow he gets it into his head that, clearly, the best thing to do about the God whose authority his people respect over his own is to build a tower to Heaven and pull Her off Her throne. It’s not at all what Aziraphale intended, and he’s sure this is either going to earn him a commendation or a serious demotion.

Still, he goes to the construction site every day with a picnic lunch, watching the tower rise ever higher, one brick at a time.

*

Crowley walks through the years with a lighter heart than he would have imagined possible during those terrible days leading up to the Flood.

He watches humanity, teaches them, gives gifts of kindness wherever he can. Gifts of laughter, gifts of joyful surprises. Small things, usually; he’s learned very quickly how much worth small gestures can have. Heaven counts his miracles, weighs his choices about whether to heal a person or bless a crop or grant divine inspiration. They don’t watch the times she fixes a child’s doll, buys a loaf of bread and shares it, the times he helps a group of humans who don’t recognize him as anything unusual chase down a lost sheep, or if he picks up a child and swings her around while laughing. The times she walks through a village in celebration and joins in with the songs, not caring how her voice sounds. It’s nothing compared to the voice that once filled her spirit with bliss, but it's lifted in joy, and that has its own divinity even if the notes are off-key.

Everywhere, in any form, whatever else Crowley is doing, he keeps a small sliver of attention aware, hoping for a hint of that particular touch of dark warmth. A particular face and voice.

When Heaven tells her to go and bear witness at the great tower being built at Babel—not to interfere, merely to bear witness, for something of great import is to happen though no one yet knows what—Crowley is filled with as much restless hope as she is wariness. Important Things attract attention from both sides. She doesn’t want another Flood, no, would strive to prevent it if she could. But this event doesn’t have the same feel, and besides it’s impossible not to wonder if, just perhaps...

When she sees a white-haired, white-garbed demon sitting with a picnic lunch and watching the tower grow, Crowley’s smile is almost blinding in its radiance, her pleasure in seeing him entirely unhidden. She walks over without hesitation. “Hello, Aziraphale.”

*

He turns, and for the first time in a millennium his heart flares back to life, shaking off dust and weariness and weight, as if recalling some purpose he’s all but forgotten.

Even in a slightly altered shape, he’d know the angel anywhere—and she wears happiness like a diadem.

“Crowley!”

Her smile shines more brilliant than any distant light in the firmament. She’s always been beautiful, but there’s an ease and a lightness to her now he’s never seen before. No trace of worry has left its shadows on her, not this time—she moves through the glow of afternoon like a song, sunlight tangling in her hair like it loves her, highlighting strands of brass, chestnut, auburn. Her steps are easy, her shoulders relaxed. And her warm golden brown eyes are fixed squarely on him, beaming joy. No one has ever looked at him so warmly.

A single instant, and Aziraphale feels something in himself and in the world change, some miracle that began two thousand years ago in the rain at last completing itself.

Without thinking he stands, almost bouncing in his eagerness to get to his feet, grinning back at her as if he hasn’t had cause to be anything but happy over the past thousand years.

“What brings you here?”

*

Aziraphale’s obvious pleasure at seeing her doesn’t feel strange to Crowley, overwhelmed by her own happiness at seeing him. That this is a meeting between an angel and a demon, two adversaries and enemies by definition, hardly seems to matter. They’ve never yet had cause to work against each other, and while on one level Crowley knows they should, almost certainly will… this is someone who laughed at the rain with her, who gave her a priceless gift in a dark hour, and she has no wariness of him at all.

“What else?” she laughs, bends her head backwards towards the tower. “Something of your doing, I assume, or else you wouldn’t be here.” She sounds amused rather than disapproving. After all, it’s not like the humans are doing anything violent at the moment. Just building something. Hubristic, maybe, but to Crowley’s mind not exactly the blackest of acts. She knows what it is to want to make things. “Hell doesn’t send its people just to witness, not like Heaven. Or do they?”

*

Everything about this moment is wonderful in a way he hadn’t imagined possible. He’s face to face with the only soul in this world he’s ever considered a friend, and she’s not only happy to see him but totally at ease. And he knows, even if she hasn’t said anything, that his last-minute miracle was received better than he could have hoped, a knowledge that soaks into the withered landscape of his heart to coax unimagined flowers from the sand.

Aziraphale laughs, unable to stop himself—a brighter, happier sound than he’d thought he was capable of. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands for a moment; his face almost hurts in trying to accommodate the width of his grin.

“The actual tower was Nimrod’s idea,” he says (and for a moment his voice no longer sounds like a harsh and graceless rasp in his ears). “But I can’t deny I might have made a few suggestions. Here—”

He gestures at the cloth he’s spread on the ground, at the woven reed basket he’s brought.

“Can I offer you a pear, or some figs? No forbidden knowledge, I promise. Or there’s barley bread and goat cheese, with garlic.”

(If he were a better demon, if he were like the others, he would use this opportunity to try and tempt the angel towards worldly pleasure. But more than anything else he wants to share, to see if anything he’s brought will make her face light up the way the first rainfall did.)

*

“I’ve never eaten figs,” she says curiously, looking at the basket. She sits on the cloth where the demon gestures, legs folded to the side under her white linen overrobe, black woollen shawl draped and fastened over her shoulders. Some of her hair is braided now, enough to keep the rest from getting in the way. It makes her face easily visible as she looks up expectantly, waiting for him to join her. “I’d be curious to try one, if you really don’t mind sharing. Pretty sure knowledge isn’t forbidden to us anyway.”

Crowley’s grin is just a little impish, inviting him to share some inside joke. She never did consider eating the apple to have been a bad thing, and isn’t so sure the Almighty does either, whatever Heaven’s official opinion. Hadn’t she said something to Aziraphale about that at the time? The Lord knows Crowley wouldn’t have been able to say it to anyone else, even if they had been interested in listening.

But Aziraphale did. Which is part of why she sits so willingly and smiles at him.

*

That smile, mischievous and pleased, nearly dazzles him like the sun reflected on the surface of a river; he has to blink through it as he sits down beside her, adjusting his own tunic and shawls. (Despite the pleasant weather his tunic has a high collar, saffron yellow with red embroidery above the white garments; he’s grown his own hair out into the fashionable ringlets so popular with the locals, though he hasn’t bothered with a beard, because he thinks he looks a bit ridiculous with one.)

“You picked the perfect time to try one,” he says cheerfully. “Height of the season. And these are fresh from the tree—they taste best when you can reach up and take them from the other side of someone’s garden wall.”[1]

He reaches into the basket and pulls out a little bundle of white cloth, loosens the knot that holds it shut to reveal a little cluster of brown-skinned fruits. Carefully he selects one, sets the rest aside; with an expert, gentle touch he splits the fruit in half, exposing glistening purple flesh that nearly sparkles with tiny seeds. A tendril of sweet scent curls upwards.

Beaming, he offers her both halves of the fig.

“Here. The skin’s edible, if a little tougher than the rest. The seeds too.”

*

This is before Persephone. There is no interdiction attached to this gift, except the all-consuming assumption that angels and demons are on opposite sides and have nothing to do with each other save for thwarting each other’s plans. Perhaps if Crowley spent more time in Heaven proper instead of up in the stars or down in the Garden or wandering the Earth, she would have picked up that mindset.

Or perhaps not. She looks at him with mock-reproach. “Are you offering me stolen goods, demon?” she teases, her mouth still quirking in a smile as she reaches out and takes the smaller of the two halves. For the first time since spotting Aziraphale she looks away from him, instead examining the fig. “Never actually looked inside one of these before. Did you know it’s not a fruit? ‘s a flower. But it grows inside out. Isn't that odd?”

Crowley takes a bite, sputters a little, wipes syrup from her mouth. “That is _strange!_ All—” She waves her free hand, searching for a word and not finding it. The expression on her face is absurd, somewhere between amused and _eyuughh_. Despite this dubious start she takes another bite, this time more mindful of the syrup. She still makes a face, but she’s holding back laughter at the same time.

*

 _Demon_. It doesn’t feel like an accusation or even a reminder of what he’s become: it’s playful, even fond. It sinks into him the way _thanks_ once did, and he feels his heart close around it like an oyster will close around a grain of sand—or like the flower of a fig will close around a wasp, dissolving its sting into sweetness and seeds and syrup. And for a moment, in spite of the word and what it would mean coming from anyone else, he forgets it’s what he is. He forgets Hell, and Heaven, and the voice that was stolen from him. He even forgets the tower.

Nothing in all of God’s universe is as important as this blanket, and the basket, and the smell of figs, the after-echo of fingers brushing his palm and the ringing startled joy of Crowley’s laugh.

(And much later, when Aziraphale realizes what’s happened to him, he’ll reflect that any chance he might have had to keep his heart his own or even to fall in love with anyone else was utterly destroyed the moment he watched her taste a fig for the first time.)

“It’s hardly stolen if the branch grows out over the street,” he says, laughter bubbling beneath every word. “Fascinating, aren’t they? Sometimes the humans stew them in honey or wine and bake them into cakes[2]. And if you ever get the chance to have them with a roasted apple—perfect on an autumn evening.”

*

Crowley finishes her half of the fig while she listens to this, amazed by the undercurrent of happy laughter in every word. She pays more attention to that than to what she’s eating, to be honest. How often has she heard amusement like that from one of her fellows? Unedged, at no one’s expense, just pleasure in something the Earth has to offer and wanting to share it?

How often has anyone she knows treated her as a friend?

Crowley rolls her eyes, pointing a finger. “That’s sophistry, that is,” she says, still teasing. As though it matters, as though she hasn’t taken fruit from branches hanging over the street herself and given it away. Her height comes in useful sometimes, particularly to small children trying and entirely failing to jump up and grab something from an errant branch. “I’ll try fig cake sometime if I get a chance, but I’m giving up on this thing, I’ll switch to bread and cheese.” She blinks suddenly, realization crossing her face. “If you don’t mind, I mean. I don’t want to eat all your picnic, you weren’t expecting company. Were you?”

*

“Just the birds,” Aziraphale admits with a careless shrug as he sets the figs aside and pulls out the bread and a little lump of cheese. “Who aren’t terribly elegant conversationalists. They can never stay on one topic. Besides, there’s certainly enough to share.”

His sense of hunger is largely arbitrary—he doesn’t need to eat at all, neither of them do, but there’s also a ritual about taking regular meals that’s comforting and pleasant. The tower has been under construction for quite a long time now, and there’s a strange pleasure in watching the gradual change of seasons, the youths who become adults who become elders, the incremental progress ever upwards. Certainly it can get boring at times, and when it does he packs up his lunch early and goes out to make a little trouble, but most of the time it’s almost serene. He can be alone with his thoughts, watching humanity, idly turning over human melodies in his head, thinking about an angel stepping off the ark.

Except now she’s actually here, and they’re having a proper conversation, and his heart is tripping over itself with the pleasure of being able to share with a friend at last.

The goat cheese is soft enough to spread, with chunks of roasted garlic mixed in; he draws a little silver knife from inside the shawl at his waist and carves off a small sub-lump to smear over a slice of the bread. Again he offers it up like a treasure.

“Sometimes you’ll get the latest gossip from the construction crew, if you bring a bottle of beer,” Aziraphale adds slyly. “Who’s looking for a wife, who’s looking for someone else’s wife, who’s angling for a promotion, who saw something funny in the upper levels...”

*

Crowley laughs again. She can’t help it. He jests about talking to birds and is generous with the things he has and she knows, she _knows_ he’s kind. More than anyone she’s ever met. Whatever else he is or does, all those things are true.

She takes the bread and cheese with enthusiasm; this, she's eaten before, and it shows in the satisfaction as she bites into it, interrupted all at once by another chortle. "Hah, so you _have_ got some ulterior motive in picnicking. Didn’t really think you could be out here tempting crows with wit and cheese. But what’s all this about?”

Crowley waves a hand, gesturing vaguely towards the tower. “They were a lot more sparse on the details this time, just told me to come bear witness without telling me what I’m supposed to witness. Not sure they knew themselves, to be honest.”

*

(There’s a small strange flash of envy, a brief twitch like a wasp’s sting, at the realization that this isn’t the first time Crowley’s had bread or cheese. Someone else got to watch her try it, and likely had no idea what they were witnessing or how lucky they were. But—but as beautiful as discovery was, so too is satisfaction, the slight flutter of her eyelids as she registers a taste she already enjoys.)

Aziraphale busies himself with another portion of cheese and bread, sets the knife aside. It doesn’t even occur to him that it’s within her reach, that she could grab it and bless it and drive it into his flesh, that if she wanted she could do worse than discorporate him. Aziraphale, who’d lost his trust in his own Creator, trusts one of Her angels without a second thought. Just as any human trusts a best friend.

His heart thrums happily.

“I told you, it’s Nimrod’s idea,” he says, and it doesn’t occur to him to lie to her either. “Decided I’d have a crack at tempting royalty, and it turns out it didn’t take much. One day you’re suggesting he worship the pleasures of the world instead of some vengeful Lord in the sky, trying to work your way in with a little casual blasphemy, next thing you know he’s decided he wants to build a tower to Heaven to confront Her. Between you and me, I didn’t think they’d make it as high as they have, but blessed if they don’t just keep going.”

*

“Confront the Almighty?” Crowley’s hand halts in mid-air, absolutely astonished. “This mortal king thinks he can succeed where the _Morningstar_ failed? Talk about hubris.”

She resumes chewing, looks up at the building. “Impressive tower, though,” she adds, with perfect truth. It’s rather attractive, honestly, not just tall but proportioned, the work of countless hands. “Someone must’ve had some brilliant ideas for support structuring to get it even this high. It’s almost a pity it won’t work.”

Heaven is only _up_ from a certain point of view, after all. For all that they toss around Above and Below, there’s more metaphysics involved. Even if the Almighty decided not to react, the plan can’t succeed, as Aziraphale surely knows. Humans are limited to three dimensions. Mostly.

*

“Almost,” he concedes, after finishing a bite of his own portion. “I didn’t think he’d take the sky part so literally. But if nothing else, it’ll get his name in the history books.[3] Took him a whole year of consulting the best engineering minds in the country to find the right design—you should have seen some of the others, there was one bloke who was convinced all you’d need was a big enough ladder.”

Aziraphale pauses for another bite, watching the building crew load up another wagon’s worth of stone to take to the upper levels.

“Might be reaching the point where he can’t go any higher,” he muses, idly licking a few crumbs from his fingers. “From what I hear, the air’s pretty thin up there, and some of the workers seem disappointed they haven’t run into any celestial beings.”

If he’s honest, Aziraphale is mildly disappointed too. He’s been expecting someone to come down from the tower red-faced and wondering, saying that an angel appeared to give a very stern lecture on valuing ambition over the glory of God. (It seems like the sort of thing they’d do, at least as a warning shot before a lightning strike.)

*

“What, are they?” Crowley squints up at the tiny, ant-like figures up on the heights, looking dubious. “I could, I suppose, though I’ve no idea what I’d say. That whole ‘Fear not!’ thing doesn’t really work with me, it’d be more ‘Hello mortal people, nice tower you’ve got here, but this isn’t really the smartest plan you’ve had so how about you head back down now before something goes extremely wrong, hmm?’”

It comes out deliberately exaggerated, with a fair bit of hand-waving for emphasis at certain points, more meant to amuse her picnic companion than anything else. Crowley shakes her head. “But no, my orders are not to interfere this time, just to watch. I don’t think anything too horrible is coming though, doesn’t have that feel to it. Wonder what She’s waiting for?”

*

Aziraphale can’t help but giggle at her play-acting—it’s actually sort of adorable. Not in the way angels are supposed to be, gleaming and perfect, but in a warm and human way. It’s the comfortable glow of a fire on a cool night, or of the afternoon around them.

It’s both a strange relief and somewhat suspicious, that Crowley remarks it doesn’t feel like a disaster is coming. 

He doesn’t trust the Almighty. Whatever Satan may say, Aziraphale knows better than anyone Above or Below how capricious She can be. How merciless, how unkind. How unlike the best of Her angels.

But Crowley glances over at him, quiet, and he finds he doesn’t want her to see him troubled. So he lets himself smile back at her.

“Hope She lets us finish our lunch first,” he says, with a wink, crunching down another bite of bread and cheese.

(And, in fact, this is almost exactly the timeline the Almighty has in mind. The first spark of confusion is only just starting in the uppermost levels of the tower, a single worker looking down at the hammer in his hand and realizing the word for it isn’t the word he thought he knew, that sounds and meanings are starting to rearrange themselves in his head.)

*

“Mm,” Crowley agrees, her mouth full. She swallows and asks for water, turns down wine on the pretext of being on the job and needing to keep some wits about her just in case. Then she flushes a little and tells a story of a brewer she’d befriended and blessed a few centuries back, and how the blessing had gotten away from her and caused the vats to overflow, resulting in a miraculous river of beer that had made that town briefly famous. Since Crowley’s assignment had been to increase prosperity in the region she’d been able to claim it was all deliberate and not just the result of being a bit tipsy.

Aziraphale shares stories of his own of temptations failed and succeeded (small ones, harmless by a mischievous angel’s reckoning), and they laugh and share food and drink, and meanwhile the furor on the tower gradually spreads until it can’t be ignored anymore, and the discordant sounds of frustrated shouting spread to where the picnickers can hear. Crowley’s long since abandoned her own lunch (she only wanted some, just enough to appreciate the experience; she doesn’t have any hunger to sate), and has been watching as she listens. “Looks like something’s finally happening,” she says, gesturing with her chin towards the excitement. “We should go have a look, yeah? Whatever is causing this much confusion is bound to be worth noting.”

There’s no question the chaos is profound. Chaos isn’t to an angel’s liking, but there doesn’t look to be any death or even great unhappiness, just… frustration. Very widespread frustration. It’s probably whatever she’s been sent here to observe, but even if it isn’t, she’s curious.

*

It’s good to talk. Crowley’s an excellent storyteller, with marvelous comic timing and a terrifically expressive voice. She’s a good listener, too, asking interesting questions and providing facts she’s picked up. For a little while it’s simply a good day, the kind of afternoon humans take for granted and that a rare few try to capture in their songs. Aziraphale will remember every instant of it in years to come, pulling the memory around himself like a thick cloak against a winter wind.

But like all things on Earth, it’s a pleasure that has to end, and Aziraphale finds himself more disappointed than anything else that his mischief is finally bearing fruit. Although he can’t say he’s at all sorry that this seems to be the kind of mischief that just makes people shout at each other rather than drawing swords.

“Probably better investigate,” he agrees reluctantly, slipping the silver knife back into his sleeve before he gathers the now-nearly-empty basket and gets back to his feet. The cloth he’s spread twitches, well-accustomed to its routine, eager to fold itself back up and leap into the basket but still pinned by the weight of two celestial beings.

Aziraphale could mention it, or tell her to shove off. But there’s something more important to say here.

“Listen,” he blurts out, looking over at her. “If we don’t run into each other again here—”

 _Goodbye_ has a finality to it he doesn’t like.

“It was good to see you.”

*

Crowley beams at him, then reaches for his free hand and clasps it in both of hers. There have been small touches during the afternoon as they handed each other things, but nothing as deliberate as this. Nothing that was touch just for touch’s sake, with unquestionable affection.

She makes it look easy, as though there’s nothing worrisome or significant about an angel and demon holding hands, no chance of burning each other with holiness or tainting with damnation. No worry at all.

“It was good to see you, too,” Crowley agrees. “Maybe we can do it again sometime? Next time our paths cross?”

*

Her hands are warm, and slightly calloused—hands that know human work, that have probably stroked cats and passed over fine fabrics and have most definitely pulled fruit from low-hanging branches for children. Her grip is gentle, too, with that underlying current of angelic strength but no real tension. And she holds on to him without fear, her smile bathing him in light, as if he’d never Fallen. As if he’s worthy of the touch.

_Next time our paths cross._

“I’d like that. We could have another picnic, or at least something to eat.”

Aziraphale hasn’t often had something to look forward to. Apart from his work assignments he’s been mostly aimless, chasing earthly pleasures, practicing human instruments. But now—now there’s the distinct and un-thought-of possibility that he might share another meal with this angel. There might be another hillside, or another food she hasn’t tasted, or another set of stories to swap. Another precious burst of that dazzling laughter.

“Until next time, then,” he says, and it leaves his heart so much lighter than _goodbye_ , lifted on struggling wings, beating happily even when she sets off back down the hill again, even when she’s lost to his sight.

* * *

The world is now splintered into nations. Language divides them, after the Tower—people find the other people who use the same word for a hammer or a horse or a loaf of bread as they do, and just as they cling to their commonalities they become even more aware of their differences. People become aware that it’s much easier to strike down an enemy when you can no longer understand his pleas for mercy. They begin to solidify their ideas of superiority over one another in ways they hadn’t previously. Division makes hatred easy. It makes war easy. It makes conscience easy to ignore.

Aziraphale gets a _job well done_ from the boss for provoking the Almighty into punishing humanity, which is more a relief than anything else (even if it does mean some of the other demons now glare at him with open contempt). No one seems to have noticed that he’s now formed something like a friendship with an angel, that he’s carrying round a _next time._

But then, he doesn’t spend much time in Hell, these days, and doesn’t intend to hang around.

There’s still food and wine, music and poetry, fragrance and sweetness. He doesn’t bother with kings for quite some time—it’s not actually that much fun to tempt people with the resources and the authority to pull off a mad bastard power move that grabs the Lord’s attention. Little sins, personal sins, are much more interesting to Aziraphale, and he wastes no time in getting back to those.

A few decades after Babel, in a city lush with gardens, he catches the flirtatious gaze of a willing woman. Her frame is slender, her hair long, her smile playful. She sways her hips a little to draw his attention, very vaguely serpentine.

She’s a merchant’s wife, and her husband is out of town. It’s adultery. But he’s a demon and she was going to find a human to do it with anyway, so he lets her take him home and put out all the lamps.

Aziraphale’s eyes are shut the whole time, the better to imagine a luminously happy smile disintegrating with gasps and moans. To imagine that instead of sheets he’s driving his fingers into soft black feathers, to imagine long brown hair spread over the pillow in a flood of brassy sunlight and a voice fondly calling him _demon_ as he noses between her thighs. Again and again the merchant’s wife shivers and bucks and cries out, sobbing for more, sometimes slurring out a name not his or her husband’s. Again and again he imagines her pleas are being gasped out by a writhing angel, that the hands clinging to him are hands that held a fig and gestured and pointed at him, until at last her sounds and his own are drowned out by the insistent thunder of his heart, _Crowley, Crowley_ , and he comes harder than he has in centuries.

He leaves her sated and exhausted, curled up to sleep with whatever ghost she held on to as she lay with him, and spends the next three days drunk.

  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/ashfae/49770605633/in/dateposted-public/)

  


* * *

  


1. Which is true of all produce. As one of the authors can attest, no tomato will ever taste as good as a tomato you stole from your neighbor. Even if the neighbor did eventually catch on and plant a wall of bushes between his garden and the sidewalk.↩

2. Centuries from now, wandering round France enjoying the (literal and metaphorical) fruits of their culinary innovations, Aziraphale would stumble into a little _auberge_ where the proprietor’s wife made a fig, honey, and goat cheese galette. Not coincidentally, this woman’s descendants are still blessed with an absurd streak of good luck and a consistently excellent crop from the stand of fig trees behind the main building—trees which somehow escaped the violence of multiple wars and disease outbreaks and continue to give the best fruit in the country.↩

3. And into more than one Looney Tunes short, which in turn led a great many Americans with a mostly secular education to assume that rather than being a joke about Elmer Fudd’s hunting prowess, it was some sort of obscure word for idiot. When Aziraphale discovers this several millennia from now he’ll laugh himself into a coughing fit.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart by **zumofungi** again! <3 - Ashfae
> 
> The Looney Tunes thing is entirely true. Ain't Bugs a stinker? - Goose


	5. Sodom and Gomorrah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel is looking for ten untarnished souls, a demon is looking for an angel, and a seraph is looking for only the Almighty knows what but probably it won't be pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The authors wish to state in advance that they interpret the sins of Sodom and Gomorrah as apathy, cruelty, and the breaking of hospitality laws, and that while the story of Sodom is not a pretty one, content warnings will be given where appropriate. That said, we're writing a love story and prefer to keep the dark things to forebodings and atmosphere, so they'll be at a minimum. If you feel we've missed a content warning, please let us know.
> 
> This section of Crowley and Aziraphale's story is going to cover a few chapters; no warnings are needed for this particular chapter.

Things have changed again by the time Crowley sets foot in Sodom. They have a way of doing that.

At first the division of language had struck him as extremely funny, an unusual but harmless punishment for mankind’s hubris. Over time, however, it’s proven to be more problematic than Crowley anticipated. It’s so much easier for humans to treat other humans as lesser when they can’t understand each other, easier to use them, cheat them, enslave them, attack them. To see them as _other_. It makes his job much harder.

Crowley hasn’t lost hope, isn’t fretful and dismayed the way he was before the Flood, but he’s definitely uncomfortable.

He’s also not alone.

The angel traveling with him couldn’t look more different from Crowley if they’d arranged it deliberately. Where Crowley is reed-thin, long hair currently pulled back in a tight herringbone braid, Sandalphon is bulky and balding. Where Crowley gives off an air of curiosity and a willingness to listen, Sandalphon gives off an air of… well, it should be righteousness, technically. To Crowley it just feels menacing.

But then, he doesn’t like destruction, not even when it’s been ordained by the Almighty[1], and destruction is definitely Sandalphon’s specialty. Even when it was still human, before its Ascension to the Heavenly Host, it was a little too prone to pulling down firebolts from Above. Good skillset for a prophet, and no doubt just as useful for a seraph, but hardly one to make Crowley optimistic about a peaceful outcome for this particular venture.

Still, Crowley’s determined. Ten good men. Ten good, lawful men. Women will also count, he’ll make sure of that. Abraham bargained the Almighty down to ten, may he be forever blessed for his audacity, and the Almighty agreed. If Crowley can find ten good people in Sodom and Gomorrah, the cities will be spared. Even in as notorious a den of iniquity as the place is rumored to be, that should be doable.

Two are easily found: Lot and his wife, who meet their angelic guests at the gates to the city and treat them with utmost respect and graciousness, even winning an approving smile from Sandalphon. For a little while Crowley breathes easier. Lot offers them hospitality, and at first they demur—no, they will stay in the square, for how else may they properly conduct their search for the good and God-fearing folk? But Lot is insistent, and eventually Sandalphon permits itself to be persuaded, and so too perforce does Crowley.

They walk with Lot through the city, and for the first time in centuries Crowley isn’t looking for white-cloud hair or a high-necked tunic in saffron and scarlet. He looks at all the souls around him, searching for goodness.

Two down, eight to go. Surely there will be that many, at least. Surely.

*

Truthfully, Aziraphale isn’t all that fond of Sodom.

For one thing, the food isn’t quite up to snuff for a big city—oh, certainly there’s an abundance of it for those with money, but everything is more heavily spiced than he likes, every fruit soaked in wine, every meat seasoned within an inch of its life. And there’s nearly nothing in between a pauper’s meal of scraps and a rich man’s decadent feast: in Sodom, one either _has_ or _has not_.

That’s another thing he doesn’t really like about it. The divide between poverty and excess is stark and uncrossable, and those with more lean hard on those with less. The tolls and taxes leave no room for any sort of comfort or equilibrium: people here are either flush or drained. It’s created a hostility and a faint whiff of despair that hangs in the atmosphere like wisps of morning fog. It’s a cruel place run by cruel men.

He’s been to cities (and will be in many more cities, in the future) that wear their sins proudly and playfully—most of all their own carnal specialties, or else their excesses. But none of them have quite the same tang of apathy in the air that Sodom does. The souls here are worn ragged by the way this place operates.

Most of Aziraphale’s temptations are towards thievery. He can’t bring himself to indulge in his other favorite pleasures here.

(Especially not when so many people are more desperate than willing, or else bought and offered up without a choice. Aziraphale may be a sinner, he may have voluntarily given himself over to thumbing his nose at the Lord’s rules after a Fall not of his choosing, but somewhat to his own surprise he finds there are some sins he doesn’t want on his conscience.)

He’s only been here a month when a rumor, catching like a spark in dry grass, starts to rise in the city.

Angels in Sodom. Two of them. Just arrived this morning.

One with black wings.

_Next time our paths cross._

Surely there must be other black-winged angels among the Host. Surely. And the fact that there’s a second angel probably means that he should get out of the city quickly, or risk a smiting. But he has to know for sure. He has to.

Carefully, with his heart in his throat, Aziraphale makes his way to the neighborhood the rumors are flowing from. There has to be a back garden he can peek into—there always is. All he needs is a glimpse, just to make sure.

*

The city makes Crowley’s feet itch. Really it makes all of him itch, even his wings. If he could fly away and leave it behind and not return, he would. Crowley’s never been anywhere so uncaring, so utterly sunk in casual cruelties. Everyone is either desperate or indifferent to desperation. Any sparks that once might have flared with compassion or a desire for justice have been long since ground down into oblivion.

 _Eight. Only eight more needed, and in a city of thousands._ His feet itch as much with wanting to go looking as with wanting to be gone altogether.

But instead Crowley sits at the table in Lot’s back garden, forces smiles for his wife Edith when she serves them wine and mazzot and other foods for feasting. He tries not to think of the children they passed as they walked here, more bones than skin, eaten from the inside out by hunger; he tries not to imagine if their faces would light up at being given bread, he tries not to know that they have become so hollow they may no longer be capable of lighting up for anything. He tries to stifle a tiny thread of doubt whispering that this city might be better off put out of its own misery, and the souls of the children happier with God than they will be here growing into cold, callous adults with no hope of Heaven.

Crowley is becoming better at lying to himself as time goes on, or at least at not examining all his questions and observations too closely. He wishes it were otherwise.

But he can smile for Edith, whose desire to see they are comfortable and pleased is genuine. If worst comes to absolute worst, they will at least be able to save these two and any who come with them; that permission they already have. It’s not much of a comfort but Crowley clings to it all the same. Lot is good, but it’s a straightlaced, strictly-by-the-rules good, which appeals to Sandalphon more than Crowley. Crowley prefers Edith’s quiet, attentive kindness.

_Eight. Eight. Eight._

Crowley bites at his _mazzot_ , freshly baked and conferring hospitality, flavored with onion and garlic. It tastes of hope, but a thin, scant one. They’ve agreed to stay here tonight. There’s no reason for Crowley to be so filled with misgivings. But he sits with shoulders a little hunched as Sandalphon and Lot talk amicably of the city and its flaws, Lot’s hopes for improving it interrupted by Sandalphon’s too gentle reminders that it may be too late for such improvements. Edith meets Crowley’s eyes, and for all that she smiles with all courtesy as befits the host’s wife, he sees fear there, the silent plea: _Help us, Oh Lord, in this our hour of need..._

It’s the only prayer he has felt touch him since he stepped into the city. The only one. He’s never been anywhere so utterly without hope or faith of any sort. Deserts feel less bleak.

Crowley sits quietly and eats bread, thinking of _eight_ and absently looking around as though he might find those souls hiding among the flowers and fruit trees, and that’s when he catches sight of cloud-fluff hair and blue eyes peeking around the edge of the garden. 

For the briefest moment he lights up, as bright as he could ever have hoped those poor children might be, a smile beginning—

—and just as suddenly it’s gone, his eyes wide with sudden awareness of what a terrible, terrible place this is for Aziraphale to be, how dangerous it is. Crowley glances at Sandalphon and is relieved to see that the seraph is still engrossed in its genial conversation with Lot.

At once Crowley too turns his attention back to their host. He doesn’t look back towards the glimpse of white hair and high collar, for all that his heart paces with the speed of racehorses. He doesn’t even glance. The word _eight_ no longer repeats in his head, only the whisper of a name, and he silences it as soon as it begins to be spoken even there, for fear that it might be found.

*

There’s a low wall around the garden, and as soon as Aziraphale peeks over it his heart leaps and thunders. He was right. It’s Crowley, sitting there at a table with Lot and his wife and some winged being he doesn’t recognize. And for a second those golden brown eyes dart his way, and _Satan_ , the look that starts to bloom on his face—

—is gone almost as soon as it appears. The nascent smile vanishes; his eyes go huge with something like dread.

He turns away.

A chill of realization creeps through the base of Aziraphale’s throat.

Before now, when they’ve met up, it’s just been the two of them and humans. Now there’s another angel at that table, someone else to report to the head office. Someone who does in fact care that he’s a demon, someone who would take the opportunity to strike him down if they saw him. Someone to remind Crowley of the rules and how they must never be bent or broken, to remind him of Heaven’s wrath.

Aziraphale folds slowly to his knees on the other side of the wall from the garden, the breath pressed out of him by a knowledge that seems to drive itself between his shoulders like a knife blade.

_I’m his dirty little secret._

Of course he’s been one before, to humans. But their lives are shorter, and he’s never cared where he fits into the mosaic of their consciences when he wanders across their paths. This is different. This is Crowley. The only person who’s ever treated him like a friend, like an equal, who can make him forget what he is and what happened to him.

And he has to pretend that they don’t know each other.

For a long moment Aziraphale just stays there, tucked into himself, another soul defeated by Sodom, lungs empty and throat aching. He can’t even curse God.

But eventually a faint fragment of that voice drifts over the wall, falling to tangle in his hair like a dead leaf: Crowley thanking his hosts for something.

Aziraphale has to see him.

It’s a decision that rises with a powerful surge of emotions: spiteful anger, hope, hurt, love. He knows he should leave, and soon—none of the other angels he’s run into have been anywhere near as inclined to mercy and kindness as Crowley—but Aziraphale has to see him, before he goes. Just one conversation. One hour. Half an hour, even.

No one notices as he changes shape.

A moment later, a large white tomcat with longish fur, a plumy tail, and sky-blue eyes leaps to the top of the garden wall and stretches its long back.

*

Crowley’s head is spinning.[2]

Lot speaks, and he barely hears a word. Sandalphon chuckles (not a good sign) and Crowley has no idea what spurred it. Edith gives him a concerned frown, and he looks at her blankly before offering belated thanks for the plate of fruit and cheese she’s handed them.

He takes a piece of fruit automatically, without looking. Then he realizes it’s a fig and puts it down again untasted. He’s forgotten how to breathe. Fortunately it's not required.

_Aziraphale._

Impossible to silence the name entirely. Impossible to ignore that awareness of brimstone coming from a particular direction. Impossible not to know the demon is still there, even if he doesn’t look. Impossible to forget that if he does, if he gives any sign of acknowledgement, Sandalphon will notice. And Sandalphon will not hesitate if it realizes there’s a demon around. Not at this time, not in this city. That would only firm its purpose, already nearly certain in its direction.

Crowley redoubles his efforts, forcing his attention back to the conversation. The sun is lowering in the sky, though not yet setting. Lot offers them his own bedroom for the night, and Sandalphon refuses; they will not sleep, but instead will bend their minds towards the city in their search, and any room may do for that purpose, or even this garden. Lot tries to insist, points out they will dishonor his hospitality if they refuse, and Sandalphon agrees to at least be shown the room, the house. Crowley, the subordinate in this venture as in any of Heaven’s ventures, need not agree or disagree. His part here is as a communicator, more familiar with the ways of humanity than Sandalphon, whose knowledge and experience is out of date; the decisions aren't Crowley’s to make. But he will be expected to enforce them, whatever they are.

The sense of brimstone has only drawn closer as the hour has waned, drifting along the garden wall.

When the others remove to the house, Crowley lingers behind, claiming he wishes to look more closely at the garden, as he's fond of them; Sandalphon waves a hand in disinterested permission. Edith looks back briefly as she walks inside, an unspoken question on her tongue, and if matters were less pressing Crowley would follow to try to relieve her mind a little.

Only once everyone else is out of sight, once he’s extended his senses a little to be sure there’s no one paying attention, does Crowley sag and look at the large, pristine cat on the wall, its fur waving errantly in the breeze. “What are you doing here, now? Why _now?_ ” he murmurs, making his way over with open concern in his face. This time he meets those familiar blue eyes directly. He’s missed them. It’s a shock to realize how much.

Crowley's hand lifts a little, as though he’d like to stroke all that beautiful fur, then is withdrawn. “You must leave the city,” he says quietly. “Please. As soon as possible. There’s, it’s…” His voice trails off. “You must.”

*

Aziraphale stays atop the wall all afternoon, the way cats will, lounging in the sunlight. In other cities, passersby might coax him with sweet words or slices of raw fish, or else throw stones at him; here they just ignore him, ground down by their own worries. This isn’t a city with many pets—the poor can’t afford to look after them, and the rich prefer to flaunt their wealth in other ways. Which is a shame, because cats are good company, and often have better leads than humans on where interesting things may be happening.

The sunlight has grown rich and golden, the only truly lovely thing left in this city anymore, when everyone leaves the garden. Except for Crowley, who speaks to them in the doorway and then turns back.

Aziraphale stretches again, and the feline body makes it look as if it’s perfectly casual, natural even. Under all the white fur his heart is pounding itself to pieces.

Then—the first words he’s heard from a voice he’s listened for and dreamed about for centuries.

It’s difficult not to flex his claws into the bricks of the wall beneath his feet.

“Why, what’s happening?” he demands, not caring that it must be slightly ridiculous to hear a man’s voice coming out of a cat’s body. “Who’s that other fellow with you? And why have you got your wings out?”

*

Crowley’s wings twitch, the dark feathers rustling; he’d actually forgotten they were there, for a while. “It’s a seraph,” he answers. “And not one of the nice ones. If it spots you it’ll smite first and not bother to ask questions later.”

He places a hand on the sun-warmed bricks of the wall, just a few inches away from the cat’s paws. His eyes are wide and worried, his brows furrowed. “ _Please_ , Aziraphale. It’s very dangerous here, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

*

The concern is real and warm, and for a moment Aziraphale leans fractionally towards it, whiskers twitching. The other Fallen don’t care about one another—certainly none of them give a blessing what happens to _him_ —and none of the other angels he’s run across have wanted to do anything but drive him out of wherever he happened to be.

But even the knowledge that he has a friend who actually cares what happens to him, whose kindness can encompass even a demon, is somewhat eclipsed by the urgency in Crowley’s face and voice.

“If it’s so dangerous then you shouldn’t be here either,” he points out, ears flicking forward. “Sodom is no place for an angel. No place for anyone with a drop of sense, for that matter. Not that Gomorrah’s any better…”

He pauses as something vital registers. _A seraph. And not one of the nice ones_. And he’s suddenly, unspeakably glad that a cat’s face gives away so much less than a human one: it lets him hide his dawning horror from Crowley. Angels of that high rank don’t just walk the earth; they come with a purpose and a message. They’re a last warning, or else the punishment for ignoring one.

His ears swivel backwards, pricked and alert.

“It’s big, isn’t it.”

*

Crowley grimaces. He never likes the big things. Big things never seem to turn out well for humanity.

“The wings aren’t out because they’re pretty, Aziraphale,” he says quietly. “This is as official as it gets, and I have almost no control over the situation.” Or ever, really, but that’s a different matter. Crowley is well aware of his strengths and how to use them, and he knows they’re of very limited use here and now. “Sodom’s not a threat to me, don’t worry. But you need to leave. Things may be about to get… extremely messy.”

*

He shifts uneasily. There’s something Crowley isn’t telling him, some glaring omission—the first time in their friendship dishonesty has crept in.

 _Dirty little secret_ , a voice at the back of his mind whispers, and his paws curl, claws rasping silently against the worn baked clay bricks.

“May be?” he demands, tail swishing. His pupils grow, still slitted, but more intent now, the look of a cat on the hunt. “What, is She pretending She’s going to change Her mind about whatever mess She’s about to make?”

*

It’s not the first time Aziraphale has questioned the will of the Almighty to Crowley, but it is the first time he’s been so aggressive about it, or maybe a better word is bitter. It hurts Crowley to hear the anger there. If he’d been a different angel he might have become defensive in response, hidden behind a shield of self-righteousness, pulled holiness around himself like armor.

Crowley’s really not very much like other angels, and some of his thoughts about the Almighty would be distinctly controversial if he admitted to them. Which is why he doesn’t. Except sometimes to Her, when he’s alone in the night looking up at the stars. 

(She hasn’t answered. He doesn’t expect Her to.)

He faces Aziraphale’s demand without flinching, sad and determined. “She did warn them,” he says quietly. “And it might still be possible to prevent the worst. I’ll try. But even if I succeed, this is a terrible place.” This time Crowley doesn’t hesitate, lifts his hand and carefully strokes the cat’s fur, starting with the head and trailing fingers lightly along the back. He probably shouldn’t, or at least not without asking permission first… but they held hands once, several hundred years ago. They stood together in the first rain, they shared a meal. The fur is so soft against his palm and fingertips. “You said this was no place for anyone with a drop of sense. Take your own advice, and get out while you can. The Lord knows I wish I could.”

“Sheelael? Angel, are you still outside?”

It’s a call from inside the house, from a female voice; Edith, no doubt. Crowley flinches and sighs, retrieving his hand. “Stay safe, Aziraphale,” he whispers, before turning and walking back to the house, black wings trailing behind him.

*

The cat’s body moves almost of its own accord: his head tilts slightly into that touch, then his back arches, a long fluid motion curving up into the gentle press of his hand. A purr rises in his throat, the faintest fragment of his old power, as easy as breathing.

But before he can respond, before he can disentangle his own voice from the cat’s purr, there’s another voice calling. A woman’s voice, using a name he doesn’t know.

And Crowley responds to it.

Aziraphale tucks himself into a sitting position, tail curling around his paws, and watches the angel go.

For a while he can’t move, statue-still on the wall, a gleam of white glowing in the remnants of a dusty afternoon.

He should have known Crowley wasn’t the angel’s real name. It’s too human, too free of either fuss or gravity to be of Heaven’s making. But he used it at the very beginning, the very first time he introduced himself. _Please call me Crowley._ Most likely the nickname came from Adam or Eve.

_Why would you use that with me? It’s not as if we didn’t already know we were on opposite sides._

_Does anyone in Heaven know?_

_Are you only Crowley when they’re not looking?_

_Have I ever really known you?_

The thought shakes his heart like a lightning strike, a deep and painful jolt. His claws leave tiny marks on the bricks where they dig in, involuntary, like the clenching of a fist. A swirl of churning emotion rises in the wake of that first blow—part of which is a sudden spiteful desire to expose Crowley, to _make_ him acknowledge that he has secrets, that they know one another.

_Dirty little secret._

But what would that do to him, here and now? Here, in vicious, soulless Sodom, with a seraph within earshot most of the time? He’s seen what holy water does to a demon[3], what demons do to each other when they’re given license to inflict suffering on one another. Heaven, for all that they pretend they have the market cornered on righteousness, probably has nearly identical punishments at their disposal. There are worse things than Falling. There’s the death from which no soul has ever returned, loss without the hope of healing or redemption.

His throat hurts.

Secrets or no secrets, Aziraphale knows that if it’s dangerous for him to be here, it’s just as dangerous for Crowley—for Sheelael—even if he is an emissary of the Lord. The rumor will have spread even further by now, angels in Sodom, something new, something fresh, and the rotted-out souls who seek ever madder pleasures will want a look at the very least.

The sun is just touching the horizon when he gets to all four paws again and pads along the wall.

Already he can hear a murmur starting, somewhere beyond the garden—there’s a small crowd of loiterers skulking around Lot’s front door. He leaps down, slinks his way towards them, ignoring the few skinny rats who nose in the gutters for scraps.

  


* * *

  


1.Especially not when it's ordained by the Almighty, though he keeps that detail to himself.↩

2. Not literally. He tried that once, mostly by accident, and was dizzy for a week afterwards.↩

3. The very first had been a demon named Turel, who had happened to run into the Archangel Uriel in the middle of a town square. Every single one of Hell’s employees was assigned a compulsory visit to the site, to see the greasy, ashy black stain that had once been Turel. Millennia from now, Aziraphale will breathe a sigh of relief when he learns it’s been paved over and turned into a car park.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Notes.
> 
> Technically it wasn't just Sodom and Gomorrah but five cities of the plains, of which those two are the biggest, but for simplicity's sake we're just running with those two.
> 
> Some of the earliest references to Sandalphon state it was originally the prophet Elijah, who was taken up to Heaven by God and Ascended into the ranks of the angels. Sandalphon's pronouns are it/its according to the Good Omens script book.
> 
> Lot's wife is unnamed in the Bible, but the _midrash_ Sefer haYashar names her as Edith.
> 
> The word she'ela (שְׁאֵלָה) in Hebrew means 'question'. I stuck on the '-el' to indicate 'of God' and make a name I hope vaguely means 'a question of God', or similar. It should be pronounced sort of like _shay-eh-la-el_ , with the 'la' quick and clipped. All that said while I'm Jewish by heritage I know little of Hebrew aside from what can be learned through several hours of internet research and a little bit of lifelong osmosis, so if I've gotten this horribly wrong or it could be done better, please let me know; I'd like to learn. - Ashfae
> 
> Special thanks to **miss_begonia,** whose very fluffy cat Moo Cow directly inspired Aziraphale’s animal form! - Goose


	6. The Judgment of Sodom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cities of Sodom and Gomorrah are weighed, measured, and found wanting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a pretty chapter. We've mitigated it a good deal but there's no altering the fact that the original story is pretty grim. So.
> 
> Content Warnings: Threats of sexual assault (NOT in detail) including to minors, threats of violence, that lovely patriarchal idea that women and especially female children = property, mass destruction, minor character death. Again, no surprises if you're familiar with the Biblical story.

Crowley talks with Edith. She is sorely afraid; Sodom is corrupt, but it is still her home, the place where she has lived, raised her daughters, the place where in a few months’ time she is to see those daughters wed. How can they leave? Can the Lord not be persuaded to mercy?

He offers what comfort and promises he can, swears that if the worst comes to pass he will bring as many as will come, including her daughters’ betrotheds and anyone else who can be swayed. Edith is unhappy with the answer but accepts it, and goes to speak to her children.

Crowley then has a similar conversation with Lot, while Sandalphon casts its eyes over the city and prays.

Crowley also prays, but only in his head, hoping that a demon’s tracks might be hidden among the widespread corruption of humanity in the city, that occult evil won’t glitter in the greater wake of the mundane vices that run rampant here. He hopes more that Aziraphale took his warning and left as fast as demonic wings would carry him. It hadn’t occurred to Crowley he might need to clarify that by far the greatest danger in the city by far is not Sodom itself, but the seraph who’s come to judge it.

_Eight._

There’s a commotion outside, one that steadily grows louder and wilder as sunset turns to evening, as the evening grows late. Servants answer the door, shut it against the demands made. The demands increase. There’s anger, raucous laughter, threats.

The master of the house answers the door himself and addresses his neighbours in sweet terms. He reminds them of the laws of hospitality: these angels are his guests, given bread and wine and under his protection. He offers the Sodomites the alternative of his own daughters, his property, his to offer. 

Sodom’s people threaten him as well. Is Lot too not a stranger to the city in the end, one who came here only some ten years ago? What right has he to claim virtue, to judge, to _refuse?_

Crowley does not hear any of this with his ears, does not see any of it with his eyes. He sits alone in a room, concentrating intensely on the city. Even though the darkest place is in front of Lot’s own doorstep, a tangle of vicious lust and rapacious hunger with himself as one of its objects, he ignores it and instead searches everywhere else, looking for eight virtuous souls. Perhaps only six if he can claim the daughters, who are young but soon to be wed, nearly adult, nearly… Abraham bargained and so might he, if Crowley can just find six more, or even four if the Lord could be persuaded to accept the men Lot’s daughters are betrothed to… surely he can find four, in all the city, surely...

He finds none.

In another room, Sandalphon opens its eyes.

*

Outside Lot’s door, a white cat sits and listens, and it surveys the men of Sodom with a disgust that human faces rarely achieve.

At first Aziraphale thinks three refusals will do it—humans have a thing about the number three, he’s noticed. A third refusal always seems most final to the human mind for some reason. But by now the city is too sick for any sort of unspoken social contract to hold for long.

He tries to distract a few of them. Despite his white coat he can quite easily make himself invisible underfoot, in the sneaky way that cats do. He bites ankles, scratches calves, draws a little blood as he dodges kicks and thrown objects. It doesn’t do much.

Eventually Lot comes out again; just in the doorway behind him are two girls, eyes downcast, shoulders trembling. Aziraphale feels his stomach turn as Lot offers them up. If any other soul in the crowd besides him sees the tears of shame glittering in their eyes, the hurt swallowed back and shoved down, they ignore the sight. It may be their place to obey, according to the Lord’s rules, but they know exactly what they’re being offered up to.

His existence has been long already, but this is one of the most horrific things he’s ever seen. It will remain that way for a long, long time to come.

He’s almost relieved when the crowd refuses.

Good, he thinks, angrily, wishing he could risk flinging a little demonic good luck at the girls without attracting the seraph’s attention. But he bites a few more ankles, because that’s something, at least.

One white cat, though, can’t turn the tide of the crowd’s mood, particularly since he can’t risk a miracle. He can practically feel Crowley on the other side of the walls, his light and warmth seeping out beneath the doors of the house, hopeful and afraid.

He’s just starting to consider how many jumps this body needs to get to the upper windows when a flare of power makes him go still.

The humans don’t sense it; they’re too drunk on cruelty, too far gone in cynical decadence to recognize something miraculous. Aziraphale feels it, though, and it makes his fur stand on end even as his ears flatten and his eyes narrow. This is no seraph he knew when he still moved among the Host: this is newer, and there is something about the zeal in its aura that whispers to all Aziraphale’s deepest instincts that he ought to run, _now_.

He doesn’t.

Or at least not as far as he should.

He darts in and out among the crowd, biting and clawing when he has to, moving back from the door. By the time it swings open he’s a good twenty feet away, far enough to observe but to still be hidden among the noise of the crowd.

*

“ _Sheelael._ ”

The voice penetrates where a normal one would not, could not, hauling Crowley out of his silence. The angel doesn’t say a word as he gets to his feet. There’s nothing he can say, no plea that would be heard. He’s swept through the unclean souls of this city and its twin for most of the night, he knows the search is fruitless.

“ _Gather the man and his wife and children. Take them from the city, towards the mountains._ ” Sandalphon smiles, golden teeth glinting. It looks unsurprised, satisfied. This task does not displease it. It speaks in their own language, not one any human knows. “ _I will prepare. This place will be cleansed. It will begin at dawn._ ”

Crowley turns and leaves without a word.

Lot still stands in his doorway, barring the way forward with his own body, but the crowd presses against him. His daughters sit huddled in the corner, their mother’s arms around them as she prays in quiet, rapid speech.

Crowley prefers to drift through the world, to talk and listen and watch, to give small kindnesses and share laughter. To live like he’s human, in many respects. But he is not. He is an Angel of the Lord, and his duty right now is clear.

 _Walk with me, Almighty God. Be my strength and my firmness of purpose, guide my steps._ Because he’s Crowley, he sighs a little and silently adds, _Please?_ as, with grim determination, he pulls Lot back from the door and takes his place there. A tall, beautiful figure in the backlit doorway, wings half-outstretched.

Before any of the maddened crowd can react, Crowley reaches up a hand, pulls power down from Above and flings it onto them, blinding every human present, fogging their sight and direction. The crazed shouts take on a new tone of sudden fear as they stumble into one another and everything else, looking for the entrance to the house and not finding it.

Crowley turns and slams the door behind him, looking at Lot and his family. “We have to go. Right now.” He glances at Edith and at the poor girls, still half-scared out of their wits from the fate they’ve just avoided. There’s no time to think of that part yet, sick as it makes him. “Tell your servants they must leave the city if they want to survive the night. If there’s anything you can’t live without, grab it, but not if it’ll stop you being able to run.” He turns to Lot. “Warn your future sons-in-law if you want, but be quick. We need to get as far away as we can as fast as we can. And whatever you do, don’t go talk to my colleague up there.”

They all stare at him in horrified silence. Crowley grinds his teeth. Mortals. “ _Go!_ ”

They do.

Alone again, Crowley spends a few precious minutes pacing and swearing. He’s learned a lot of swear words over the centuries. One of the handy parts of having so many languages around now is being able to curse in all of them.

The ruckus has died down outside, the crowd dispersed in blind panic. Literally blind. Crowley smiles just a little to himself at the thought as he opens the door, extends his senses, tries to taste brimstone in the air. Looks for a flash of white in the waning moonlight. “Aziraphale?”

It’s barely a whisper. The absolute last thing he wants is for Sandalphon to hear.

*

Even through the noise of the crowd, he hears the door open. He looks up, and there’s Crowley—beautiful, determined, wings magnificent in the light of many lamps. For a moment he’s struck into silence by the sight, so much beauty and goodness in the midst of a morass of human evil.

Then he feels power begin to gather, but not destruction.

He’s not sure why he shuts his eyes.

The power surges—not the seraph’s, it’s not nearly as fiery or as _angry_ , and it’s not accompanied by a smiting. Instead there’s a faint ringing in his ears, and then feet stumbling every which way, panic swirling and churning above him.

If anyone in the crowd could still see, could still laugh at an innocent sight, they might laugh to see how this pristine white cat scrambles and dances to avoid the stumbling stampede. His yowls of frustration—just as many swear words as Crowley’s outburst, though he doesn’t know it—are lost in the frenzy of the crowd as he hops from paw to paw.

Someone’s foot catches him in the side, sweeps him off all four feet in an accidental kick that bruises his ribs and sends him flying halfway across the street. He claws and kicks and struggles upright, hissing, but already the humans are scattering, the shouting moving away from Lot’s front door.

Aziraphale shakes himself, limps to the edge of another garden wall to recover his breath.

But even on the other side of the street, he hears his name. His ears, human or feline, have been perked for that voice ever since Babel; he can hardly miss it now.

With as much dignity as he can muster, he dashes across the street, a white streak in the thin moonlight.

“Crowley!”

It’s no louder than a cat’s meow, easily lost to the city night; he’s still bristling with the awareness of the seraph somewhere nearby.

*

Crowley goes to his knees, reaches out a hand towards the white cat. He’s honestly not sure if he’s worried or relieved to see Aziraphale still here; at least this way he can be sure the demon will be warned.

“It’s going to destroy the city,” he says, voice low and urgent. He doesn’t call Sandalphon by name, he doesn’t want to draw its attention. “All of it, Gomorrah too. With holy fire, so _don’t_ let it touch you, don't even look. I’ll take Lot's family to the main gate and we’ll run from there. If there’s anyone you value here, tell them and then get out.”

*

Aziraphale will tell himself later that the way he leans into that hand, butting against it, is merely the cat’s body reacting to a friendly touch. In the moment it doesn’t seem to matter, not with the urgency of what Crowley’s telling him, or the warmth of fingers curling against his fur.

 _If there’s anyone you value here._ He would smile, but the look wouldn’t exactly translate on a feline face. The one person in this city he values is right here, about to leave it behind in a smoldering ruin of righteousness.

And perhaps it’s best that his face doesn’t give that away, anyhow.

“Where are you headed?” he asks. “The mountains, or north to the river?”

*

Crowley doesn’t even think about stroking the long plumes of fur, scratching a little into the back of the neck. Possibly he doesn’t realize he does it. He’s stroked so many cats over the centuries his hands have certain instincts. He also doesn’t think about the fact that he’s talking to a cat, who is Aziraphale, and should he really be petting a demon? All things he should probably question, it’s his nature to question things, but just now he doesn’t have the time.

“The mountains.” Crowley rubs his forehead with his free hand. It’s been a long night and it’s about to get worse. “It will begin at dawn. Sa—it’s always had a dramatic sense of timing.” Crowley tilts his head, the better to meet the cat’s eyes. “ _Don’t watch it happen._ Promise me you won’t, that you won’t be here when it begins.” The hand in the fur tightens. “Promise me!”

*

Within hours this place will be afire with the Lord’s anger, and Crowley wants him out of the city before that happens.

Aziraphale’s heart reels dizzily with all of it—the horror of this place and its imminent destruction; the quiet around them, seemingly in defiance of what’s to come; the warm tug of fingers in his fur. But most of all, rising above all of it, something entirely new: the revelation that someone cares if he lives or dies. The other Fallen don’t mourn one another or even work together, and Satan isn’t exactly a friendly boss; the other angels would probably strike him down on sight, and God certainly doesn’t care what happens to him anymore.

Alone in all the world, Crowley cares. Crowley wants him to live. To survive what’s coming. Wants there to be a _next time our paths cross_ after this.

He’s glad beyond words that cats can’t weep.

“I promise,” he says—and he shouldn’t be making promises to an angel, they shouldn’t even be talking, but, _Satan_ , how can he refuse such a plea? “I’ll be gone by then.”

*

Crowley’s shoulders sag a little in relief. “...okay,” he says. “Good. Thanks.”

The angel stands up, visibly gathering himself back together, squaring his shoulders back as though preparing for a fight. Or maybe just to settle his wings in place. “You’d better go, then. So should we.” He offers up a small, bitter smile. “Wish me luck, yeah? We’ll all need it. Stay safe, Aziraphale.”

He goes back into the house, calling for Edith and her daughters.

*

Demons shouldn’t, as a general rule, keep promises. It’s the sort of thing the Other Side does, that traitors do. Promises should mean nothing to a corrupt soul like Aziraphale.

In the dark, moving away from Lot’s house, he assumes human form again—only for a few minutes, to pull a little bone flute from his sleeve. It was made from the thigh of the lion Adam slew; it was the flute that coaxed children into underground caves, to be led through the Flood along with the unicorns. He’s used it to weave numberless temptations.

He sets it to his lips and thinks, _Please. Anyone. Please. Any small soul._

The melody winds through Sodom, a whisper under the other chaos of the town. It crawls into windows and under doorframes. It whispers to the children of the city that there are wonderful things waiting if they follow the white cat beyond the gates, beauty and comfort, a mother’s embrace, fresh bread.

He plays for an hour.

No one stirs.

When he arrives at the gates, a cat again, still somewhat bedraggled, a single ragged girl—no older than eight—is waiting. She looks afraid. There’s an enormous bruise around one of her eyes. But there’s still a nervous hope that kindles in her thin face when she sees him.

One child. One soul. Only one, in all the city.

But one is more than none.

He holds his white tail high, a beacon for her as they make their way through the dark towards the nearby town of Zoar.

Once they’re safely beyond the city limits of Sodom, he grants the child a boon: enough stamina to make it through till dawn. He’ll find an excuse later, though it’s more than likely the destruction of the cities will cause enough commotion in Hell that his paperwork will get lost. That’s happening more often, as the population of the world gets bigger.

The sky is just starting to lighten when they reach the gates of Zoar. He meows loudly to get the attention of a guard on watch; the man darts forward to catch the little girl as she collapses, exhausted. He speaks to her gently, gives her water from the flask in his belt, looks with concern at how hollow her cheeks are and how the bones of her wrists press against the skin.

 _The city’s going to be on fire_ , she murmurs, into the shoulder of the man who will eventually take her into his household, to the happy tears of his childless wife. _The song said to follow the white cat._

But when the guard looks up for the cat, which was there only a moment ago, he sees instead a star rising over distant Sodom, as bright as the sun, beautiful for just an instant before the columns of flame begin to rise too.

*

Lot fails in his task. His no longer sons-in-law-to-be believe he is jesting. 

Edith, near frantic with worry and grief, tries to pack half the household, but is persuaded to see sense—not by Crowley but by her own daughters, whose close escape of the evening has driven home to them just how serious the matter was, how unwise it would be to trifle with the affairs of the Almighty or Her agents. 

The sky gradually lightens, and they move as swiftly as they may through the city. Crowley’s eyes dart everywhere, still searching as though he might yet find a hidden virtue lurking, or a street urchin who might be persuaded, or a flicker of white fur. Over and over he tells them: _when we reach the gate, run, and don’t look back. Whatever you do, don’t look back_. Lot is anxious to obey an emissary of the Lord, and Lot’s daughters even more anxious to leave this place and never return. Edith sobs the whole way, and asks again and again _if there can be mercy, please, can there not be mercy..._

They reach the gate. It’s a long way to the mountains.

Lot says _No, not the mountains, look, there is a town, surely that will be close enough, surely_ — and Crowley almost loses his temper, _Fine, the town then, anything, just go!_ He sends a brief but fervent prayer to Sandalphon and the Lord, hoping it will be heard.

They run, all of them. Crowley would be the swiftest, but goes last. Holy wrath won’t harm him, and he must watch his charges. 

The sun rises, and with it the seraph rises like another star—smaller, but still able to burn.

It starts so silently at first. Crowley can hear it all the same, a rush of fire in the air, shooting towards the earth. It probably looks beautiful, at first, in a way. Glowing and sparking and alive. 

He doesn’t look back, not even when the screams begin, when the sounds of buildings collapsing crashes through the air.

Edith does.

Crowley will never forget the look on her face in that last moment, the fierce sorrow for a home and life she loved despite all its flaws, her mouth still open around the word _please_ —. The way the light of destruction colors her skin. The sight brands itself on his mind even as he reaches out in a futile attempt to stop her.

By the time he’s taken the two strides needed to reach her, she’s gone, turned to a pillar of salt. Salt for hospitality; salt for tears.

Crowley swallows his own grief and runs, shouting for Lot and his daughters to go faster and praying they will not realize what else they have lost this day. Not yet. Not yet.

Those two words begin to pace in his head with his running feet. He could fly. He doesn’t. Not yet.

By the time they reach the town Lot mentioned the sun is fully risen. Lot stops at a small bit of pasture near an outskirting farmhouse, leans on the fence, catches his breath. Looks carefully around (not back) for his wife and daughters. Goes pale when he realizes what has happened.

They all four kneel together by the fence, Lot’s daughters sobbing against his chest. Crowley shrouds them all with his wings. A measure of protection, a shield between the three of them and the cataclysm that continues on the plain. Something for him to do that’s useful, in a moment where nothing is of use. It seems to last forever. Perhaps it does.

Eventually there is silence, except for the sound of weeping.

It’s Crowley who looks, of course. He knows what he’ll see. The plain behind them is utterly ravaged, the buildings ground to pebbles, all life turned to dust. Even the vegetation is nothing but ash. A dense smoke hovers in the air. In the midst of it, a bright golden flame looks down upon its work, and sees it is Good, then vanishes.

Reporting in. Crowley will need to do that also. 

Not yet.

There’s a man Lot has done business with in the past here, a shepherd, who offers them shelter. The shepherd’s kindness is warily given but gratefully accepted, and Crowley blesses him for it and cures his sheep of a few minor illnesses besides. Lot and his daughters all but collapse together, and Crowley gives them the only gift he can in the circumstances: sleep. It won’t take away their pain, but it’ll give them respite from it for a little while. The shepherd is charged to watch over them while they recover, and swears to do so.

And then he’s free to go.

Crowley steps outside the shepherd’s hut, still feeling a last manic edge of desperate energy not yet faded. He could return to Heaven and tell them of the results of this assignment, as Sandalphon is no doubt doing. He could go view the remnants of Sodom and Gomorrah for himself.

Not yet.

Instead he flies towards the mountains, heedless of anyone who might see him. He lands at a place that’s more grass than rock, with a few trees to offer shade from the sun, now at its peak in the sky. There he lets out a scream no human voice can hear before collapsing to his knees in tears, his body shaking with grief and horror as he buries his face in his hands.


	7. The Destruction of the Cities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Divine Retribution and its aftermath.

_Don’t watch it happen._

Aziraphale runs, swift on four feet, a tiny white streak on the plain. He can hear the fire; he can feel the overwhelming heat of divine power roaring at his back, almost close enough to singe his long fur. And he feels, too, the tidal wave of death that sweeps over Sodom and Gomorrah—thousands of souls snuffed out, the rush of their journey into Hell almost leaving a breeze behind them.

_Don’t watch it happen. Promise me. Promise me._

The grass becomes dry and crisp under his feet. The fertile ground dries up as he heads towards the mountains, eyes fixed firmly forward, paws turning grey with dust and ash and ruin. Forward, no other way but forward, his gaze lifted to the mountains.

As the sun reaches its apex, he sees something larger than a bird rise into the sky.

Heart hammering, he follows it, lets his senses fix instead on the little thread of brightness above him. Not ascending, not headed back to Heaven to give a report, but towards the mountainside.

Aziraphale stops for a moment. He can’t catch up like this—four feet may be somewhat more efficient than two, but they’re nowhere near as fast as wings.

He sniffs the air carefully, whiskers pricked. The seraph’s overwhelming presence is gone now; the holy fires have given way to earthly ones, burning themselves down on whatever fuel is left.

No one witnesses the cat become a man, the man unfold great grey wings that gleam like corroded silver, the wings beat and take the air.

From above, the destruction is both vast and terribly small. What was once a great green plain is now a sea of ash; two islands of jumbled ruin float in it, silent, no movement anywhere in them except the curls of smoke that drift up and up. Aziraphale doesn’t breathe them in.

Cruel cities, cruelly laid to waste. He’d despised Sodom’s apathy, its violence, its maddened lusts, and yet this doesn’t seem any better. It seems like the work of a frustrated child, sweeping aside a tower of blocks to start again, except with human lives. Humans who don’t get to start again, who will now never have the chance to change.

Then he hears the scream.

It resounds in his heart, a cry of piercing agony, of sorrow beyond reckoning. It is terrible as thunder, or as the softest whimper of a terrified child, and it reverberates with a pain that sears and stings.

He folds his wings and dives.

Down, leaving the terrible sight behind, toward the patches of green on the mountainside; down, swift as a hawk, following the last echoes of that sound to its source.

The sight of Crowley twists his heart so hard it nearly chokes the breath from him.

_How can She be so cruel, to send you on these assignments where you must watch death and destruction? Why would She do this to a soul so compassionate, so joyful?_

_What the fuck is wrong with Her?_

Aziraphale lands on the grass beside him. In silence he extends a wing over Crowley, as if to shield him somehow from the Lord’s penetrating gaze.

*

It takes Crowley some time to realize he’s no longer alone. He’s pushed himself through the night, wading through the malicious, hopeless souls of Sodom and Gomorrah, feeling their indifference and viciousness scrape against him until he was left naked and eroded and still searching, until no time was left and no place left unsearched and nothing found. 

He feels unclean. He can still hear Edith’s voice praying for mercy, and honestly doesn’t know if he agrees with her that it should have been granted. Maybe she was better than he is, to still wish for mercy for those who had never shown any to anyone. But just now Crowley can’t find it in himself to be anything but relieved that the cities are gone, and he despises himself for his relief, and that's why he weeps. For the waste of it all, and for his own weakness in the face of it.

But something is shading him from the sun, and his curiosity is never quiet for long, not even in the face of grief. He realizes who must be standing next to him long before he uncovers his face and looks up.

Crowley looks a mess, frankly. Even angels can’t weep and stay pristine, not when they’re in a body. His eyes are red-rimmed, his nose red, his face streaked with tears. But he smiles the smallest amount when he meets Aziraphale’s eyes, when his gaze flickers up to the wing sheltering him. He takes a breath, licks his lips.

“Your wings are beautiful.”

Small, croaky words, quietly spoken, falling into silence after the storm. He meant to say something else, _thank you_ or _I’m glad you’re safe_ or _I’m glad you’re here_. But Aziraphale’s wings are beautiful, shimmering in the sunlight. And it’s kind of the demon to do it. After the night he had Crowley is almost starved for the sight of any act of compassion. That alone feels healing, makes him feel less tainted. It relieves him more than the shade itself does.

*

Crowley looks up, the heartbreak and conflict evident on his face, eyes red and gleaming with still-unshed tears, and this too is a sight that will stay with Aziraphale for millennia. An angel of the Lord, wracked by grief and pain, miserable. It will haunt him on battlefields and in darkened theaters, in city alleys and lonely plains.

And then he attempts a tiny smile, and Aziraphale’s entire being aches with the desire to hold him. To whisper in his ear. _Forget Her. Forget Heaven. I love you, I will love you so much more than they ever could, I would take up Lucifer’s sword myself and smite Her for hurting you if I got the chance._

The words Crowley says are not at all what he expects, and they tighten his aching throat with love and agony.

_How is there still such generosity of spirit left in you, even now? How are you so much better than the rest of them, even when you’re suffering?_

He swallows it back, and attempts a smile in return, a little nod of thanks. Careful, quiet, he moves to sit next to the angel on the patchy grass, that wing still curved over him.

Aziraphale doesn’t really expect the words that rise to his own lips.

“Why black? Or were they always—?”

He’s always wondered—ever since that first meeting. None of the Host had black wings when he moved among them: the most adventurous any ever got was gold or silver, like himself[1], and he imagines by now they’ve only grown stricter about the uniform up at the head office. And right now, they both need some sort of a distraction.

*

It’s the first smile Crowley has seen in what seems like forever but is only a day, and it warms him, strengthens his own answering smile a little more. He wipes at his face, grimacing at how his skin stings. He could use a small miracle maybe, to clean himself up, but… he feels pretty drained, just now. And there have been more than enough miracles in this area.

Even after Aziraphale is sitting next to him, the wing stays curved overhead. Crowley would rather like to lean back against it or reach up to touch the feathers, but even his instincts don’t bend that far. It's one thing to stroke a cat and quite another to touch someone’s wings without explicit permission, however kind they’re being.

He can look, though. He can bask in the knowledge that Aziraphale is here and looking after him. It’s a blessing if he’s ever felt one, and no matter that it’s coming from a demon. If kindness isn’t a blessing, what is?

“Mm?” The question catches Crowley by surprise. “Oh...yeah, these.” He curves one of his wings out, stretching it so they both can see. The feathers are crow-dark, sleek and shiny in the noonday light. “No, they started out white, but…” He shrugs, gives Aziraphale a half-smile. “I used to make stars, had I told you? Back before—” He waves a hand at the world, _before all this_. “Fun job, I enjoyed it. Playing with fire and light, spinning them around. Designing supernovas and nebulae, saying hey, what if we make this one move? Beautiful things, stars.”

Crowley gradually sounds more like his usual self as he talks, if subdued. He reaches up and strokes his own wing, feathers ruffling in his fingers’ wake. “But the thing is, you wouldn’t be able to see them if they weren’t set against the night sky, yeah? I suppose I just… wanted to not forget that part. Seemed important.” He clears his throat, a little too aware of the metaphor and how problematic it might be, and looks over. “Yours? Were they always that color?”

*

_And you, like the stars, shine against the void of Heaven’s indifference and God’s cruelty. A light even a demon can follow._

His heart feels leaden, every beat echoing under the scar across his throat.

He’s not sure how his voice manages to come out steady, but for the first time in a long time he’s keenly aware of the absence of what it was, aware that he was once so much more and is now reduced to an ugly whispering version of himself.

“No.” The word is quiet. “No, we started out the same.”

_And look what’s become of me. Already a tired old sinner, while you continue to shine._

Aziraphale doesn’t dare mention that his wings were once the silver of the moon, that once he could have made every star Crowley had ever created echo with song in praise of his kindness and goodness. He doesn’t dare say that he used to think he had friends among the Host, that he used to think he was loved. He can’t.

He can’t, or he’ll shatter.

“Always wondered why no one ever tried red, or green, or something interesting,” he finishes, a thin, weak attempt at a joke.

*

Crowley’s mouth quirks up suddenly, like he’s holding back that impish grin he has sometimes, the one that showed up so often the day they shared a picnic in front of a tower. “I, uh… might’ve done.” A bit more of the grin leaks out, half-sheepish and half-amused at his own expense. He looks down at his bare feet, catches a few strands of grass between his toes. “A few of those. All at once, even. Looked unbelievably ridiculous. Fun, but ridiculous. Like a parrot, though those weren’t around yet.”

He’d like to say something more. That quiet _we started out the same_ has another layer of meaning, and Crowley hears it, hears something taut and tense underneath.

_How did you Fall, when you’re the kindest person I’ve ever met?_

It makes no sense to Crowley, and he can’t ask. Certainly not now, when they’re both worn so raw already. Some other time, maybe.

For now he leans back on his hands, looks up at the wing stretched above him. He feels… better, for talking like this. For laughing even a little while sitting in the sunlight with grass prickling under the soles of his feet. Like it will be possible to get past this day after all. “I like yours, though,” he says, instead of all the other things he probably shouldn’t say. “Never seen any colored like that before. S’nice.”

*

The mental image is a little ridiculous, and despite everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours Aziraphale finds himself laughing, imagining Crowley with the flamboyant wings of a macaw moving among the Heavenly Host.

Even then, he would be the most beautiful of them all. Crowley has a gift for joy unlike any other angel he’s ever met. The times he’s seen it spill forth it’s dazzled him, warmed him, made him forget how many ringing empty spaces there are inside him.

And he’s kind enough to compliment a demon, without fear or mockery or any reminders of righteousness.

Though he can’t know it, Aziraphale’s face softens a little, some weariness in his eyes easing.

“Thank you,” he says, mostly because that compliment is so _sincere_ , even if Crowley’s voice is still a little watery.

There’s a moment of awkward silence, Aziraphale deeply aware of how easy it would be to tuck his wing around the angel and draw him closer, how little effort it would take to reach out and gather him in to rest that tired head on his shoulder. He’s not thinking about temptation or sin—just wanting, for himself, a single moment to bask in the starlit warmth of Crowley’s soul. To comfort him. To love him, even in silence.

Instead he just sits by Crowley’s side, still sheltering him. Even the little girl he led to Zoar is shuffled to the back of his mind, overpowered like the rest of him.

*

When Aziraphale laughs, Crowley turns to watch, and this time his smile is easier, warmer. There’s no hint of malice in that laugh, is the thing, nothing that feels at his expense. There could be; it was an absurd experiment. And Aziraphale is a demon. Surely he’s supposed to be a little malicious. Or very.

They’re supposed to be at odds, but Crowley is more at ease in Aziraphale’s company than anywhere else, whatever is happening.

“Why did you come talk to me?” he asks suddenly. “In Eden, on the wall. I’ve wondered.”

*

There is malice in Aziraphale’s soul, now that he’s no longer Israfel; there is darkness, and the kind of grief that lashes out in its pain, and a deep resentment of the God who made him for a purpose and then punished him for it. But he can’t bring himself to direct any of it at Crowley, even if he is an angel. The terrible things inside him go quiet when Crowley is around. And the absence of his pain, in those moments, feels almost like grace.

The question catches him off-guard; he blinks over at the angel, at the innocent curiosity in those golden brown eyes. It’s not the innocence of the untried, the unaware, the naive, but instead the innocence of a soul that relishes simple goodness.

_I was so lonely, and you didn’t judge me or try to chase me off. I could see She hurt you, just as She hurt me, and I wanted a few words with someone who understood._

_I needed a friend, and there you were._

“You looked worried,” he says instead, and technically that’s the truth too. “About the humans. Didn’t think anyone on your side really cared.”

*

Crowley snorts, one of the more cynical noises he makes. “They didn’t. Still don’t, except as a way of keeping score, I sometimes think. Humans aren’t really real to them, not as people. And your side doesn’t really care one way or the other about them either. But you do. You like them. Why?”

His eyes fix again on Aziraphale’s face, thoughtful.

*

This is an easier question to answer, and less dangerous. Even if those sorrowful, curious eyes still make him wish with all his being that he had even one angelic song left in him—just one, that all of God’s Creation might stand still in wonder and love for this kind soul.

“They do and make so many interesting things,” he says honestly. “They don’t just make clothes to keep themselves warm and not naked, they figure out how to dye them, all sorts of colors. They imagine things, they build, they cook, they write poems. And they’re always doing more, always exploring.”

(And sometimes when he’s a white cat, humans hold out their hands to him, beckoning him close to stroke him and call him pretty, show him kindness for no reason. Sometimes a child looks up with hope in the midst of a hopeless city. Sometimes, even when Crowley isn’t close by, he’s reminded that the world is an enormous place and that there is delight to be had in it, however small, however simple.)

*

Crowley lets out a breath and nods, looking back out over the mountains. They can’t see the destroyed cities from this angle, which is helpful. But there’s still smoke in the air, enough to make all the light strange. It’s quiet up here, small animal noises and birdsong and gentle breezes, but there’s no forgetting what's happened.

“I was looking at them all night, you know,” he says. “Through all those souls. Searching through them looking for anything virtuous, any good qualities, however small. And there was nothing. Not a thing.” He shivers, still feeling the vileness of it like pitch on his skin.

To distract himself he picks up a small pebble, lobs it vaguely across the grass; it flies a few feet in the air and then bounces off of a larger rock along the way. “Two cities, and a bare handful of virtuous souls in all of them. Plus children so far past hope that they didn't have a spark in them either, no good to grow into, no way of learning better while they were stuck there.” He tosses another pebble. “I’ve met other demons, did you know? They weren’t like you at all. All _blah blah this human’s soul is mine blah de blah Hail Satan_. You’ve never even mentioned him.” A third pebble. “I’ve met you four times and on every single occasion you’ve shown me more goodness than anyone in those two cities was capable of. You must be as oddly regarded down below as I am up above.”

*

Though it’s a thought that will stick with him for a long, long, long time, this is the first time Aziraphale thinks it: _if no one on either side can understand us, maybe we should go somewhere together. Just us. Find some star you liked more than the rest and see what sort of a world we can make there._

He’s thankful that Crowley’s attention is mostly focused on the pebbles; it gives him a moment to press the thought and the rush of warmth that accompanies it down and down into some secret place inside himself.

“They mostly don’t talk to me,” he says, with a shrug, as if it’s no great loss. And to be honest, he’s long since stopped hoping there could be any sort of friendly connection between himself and the other Fallen, any friendship in Hell for him. “You have. And not any _get thee behind me, foul fiend_ poppycock, either, which is what I usually get from the angels I’ve come across.”

There’s a short silence as he reaches down into the grass, fingers the stem of a tiny blue flower.

“Funny thing about humans,” he ventures at last. “They can be so much worse than anyone on my side, when they really try. When it becomes a habit. Better than your lot, too, when you get right down to it—no offense,” he adds, though truthfully he doesn’t so much care about insulting the other angels as he does about potentially offending his only friend. “And they have such potential for change. Especially the children.”

He brushes a fingertip over the petals. They turn slowly from blue to red.

“There was one.”

(A soldier’s wife, heart brimming over with love already, is sitting at her kitchen table with the girl now, watching her devour bread and cheese, her bandaged feet tucked under her. She will ask what the girl’s name is, and get a blank stare as a response—the child can’t remember.

_Would you like to be called Edith?_

The girl will consider for a moment, and then nod.)

“Took some tempting, but she got out. Couldn’t leave without doing a little bit of thwarting, after all.”

*

Crowley sighs and throws another pebble. The bock as they tap against the rock is surprisingly satisfying as noises go. He nods agreement as he listens; yes, his people don’t really talk to him either. Yes, he knows all about the _get thee behind me, foul fiend_ rhetoric, which has always seemed pretty pointless to him to be honest, it’s not as though it works. And above all, yes, humans are astonishing in their capacity for both grace and depravity; he waves a hand at that _no offense_ , a silent _none taken_.

His head whips around so quickly at what Aziraphale says next that his braid (frayed and loose and badly in need of being redone, but still technically a braid) almost flies around to thwack him in the face from the other side. Crowley’s eyes are huge with realization as he stares at the demon. “You did it again,” he breathes. “You got one of them out, you did it _again_.”

Crowley spends a lot of his time with humans, observing them from up close rather than a distance, seeing what they know, what they do. Acting as they act. Other angels don’t even think about touch. Most of them don’t even have bodies, much less an awareness of the various things bodies do. They certainly aren’t aware of touch as a language in its own right.

Crowley is, at least to an extent. He seizes Aziraphale’s hand, the one with a finger still outstretched over a flower, holds it hard in both of his. “ _Thank you_. Even if it was to thwart Heaven, I don’t care why you did it. Thank you.”

*

Crowley grabs his hand, holds it tight, and Aziraphale looks up, startled. For a moment he can’t think about how much else he’s failed to do, what a horrible mess all of this has turned out to be, pinned in place by those eyes, that warm grip, that earnestness.

 _I did it for you_ , his heart whispers, though it doesn’t show in his eyes. _Satan help me, I did it so there might be some fragment of joy left in you after how awful all this has been, because I couldn’t bear how hard this was on you._

It’s selfish, he knows. It’s nowhere near the same sort of kindness that seems to come so naturally to Crowley, and it in no way balances out any of the sins he’s committed before now or will commit in the future. He’s not surprised Crowley thinks of him as a good person for it, even if he doesn’t think of himself that way.

But no one else ever thanks him for anything.

“You’re welcome,” he manages. His fingers stir a little against Crowley’s palms, curling to give a little squeeze. “Better not let anyone else hear you say that, though.”

The corner of his mouth twitches up in a rueful little smile.

*

“Don’t care,” Crowley says immediately. His grip doesn’t falter, and his smile is full and unshadowed for the first time these past few days. “I didn’t thank you for last time, either. Couldn’t if I tried, it meant—” He stops, laughs a little, shakes his head. “Haven’t got enough words for what it meant, then or now, so ‘thank you’ will have to do. And I’m going to say it regardless of whoever hears it, because you should know.”

*

It would be so easy to lean in closer, get rid of all the distance that remains between them. But Aziraphale can still see the tracks of tears on Crowley’s face, despite the smile, despite the outburst—though he’s radiant now, he’s just been through an ordeal.

And someone will probably be looking for him soon. Some white-winged bell end who would write up Crowley for disobedience, for giving comfort to an enemy. Who would ensure he was punished.

_I can’t do that to you._

One more squeeze, one more long look into those eyes, one more smile... and then he begins to pull away, gently.

“Thank you,” he says, and means it. “Just... be careful.”

*

Crowley grins and shrugs. “Not much need to be. They don’t care very much what I do up there, so long as I mostly do what I’m told.” He sighs. “I should check in, though. Tell them Lot and his family are safe. Mostly safe.”

A shadow crosses his face again as he remembers Edith. But he breathes in, sets the fate of that unknown, unexpected child Aziraphale brought out against Edith’s fate. It helps. Lives aren’t equivalent, by Crowley’s reckoning—unlike both Heaven and Hell he can’t see them as merely playing tokens—but it still helps. Some comfort to set against the grief.

His smile warms again as he thinks that and looks at Aziraphale. _It means everything, that you did these things that gave me hope in my hour of need._ Twice, now. Someday he’ll find a way to say it properly, so Aziraphale understands. Someday when he’s got a better idea of how to put it, when he’s less exhausted, when Aziraphale looks less cautious. 

For now he reluctantly stands up, brushes off his robes, stained with smoke and dirt and grass. Crowley makes a face, pulls down his hand in a small gesture, and then his robes are once again spotless white, his hair neatly in a herringbone braid without a strand out of place, his bare feet clean. He shakes out his wings a little in preparation, looks at Aziraphale. “But don’t forget: you promised me another picnic, and I’m going to collect. You might be a demon but I’m going to hold you to your word there whether you like it or not.”

*

In silence he watches Crowley compose himself, brush away the evidence of grief; in silence he folds his wings in closer to his body. In silence he wonders how abruptly _they don’t care very much_ could change, how much trouble an angel could get into for being kind to him. Especially here, especially now.

And in silence he feels a song start to weave itself together in his mind. He won’t be able to sing it, he’ll never sing again, and it will never sound the way he wants it to. But the first seed of it is there.

When Crowley turns back to him he blinks, slightly startled—and for the first time an unguarded smile starts to blossom behind his slit-pupil eyes.

He gets to his own feet.

“Let’s hope it’s somewhere with better food, next time,” he says. “And less... all of that.”

*

“There will be,” Crowley promises. Rash, maybe, but if he can do anything to arrange it, there will be.

  


* * *

  


1. He’d had white wings at the very beginning, like the rest, but not long after the first moonrise and the first few stars began to reflect on the vast waters of Creation he decided he liked silver much better. Bright and shining, just the way he’d felt when he had a voice that matched his first innocent joys.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have Opinions about Edith. And about the entire story of Lot, but this ends the Sodom and Gomorrah chapters, so those will have to keep for another day. 
> 
> We swear the next chapter will be lighter fare and contain more footnotes.


	8. Bethlehem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel and a demon lie on a hillside under the light of a star and discuss the birth of a child, among many other things.

It’s a beautiful night.

The majority of the fuss has died down by now. The other angels have left, the shepherds have been informed and gone to spread the news, the Wise Men have found their way. The Christ Child is born, Allelujah, Amen.

Crowley’s part in recent events has been mercifully in the background. Gabriel had the fun of telling the lucky maiden Maryam what was to happen; when Crowley later met her himself he was strongly tempted to apologize. Having Gabriel inflicted upon you is bad enough even if you aren’t a young woman being informed you’re going to bear the literal Son of God, with all the complications thereof. And it’d just gone on from there. He was amazed the poor girl hadn’t lost her wits altogether. At least Yosef had come around after the cherry tree business[1]...

Anyway. They’ve gotten here, despite one or two—or a dozen—or two dozen—various mishaps along the way. Mother and child are resting, and Crowley has no doubt that later on when people paint the event they’ll make it all look peaceful and clean and leave out all the bloody sweaty birthing bits. Humans. So idealistic.

He laughs at the thought—an angel, calling someone idealistic!—and takes another drink from his bottle. “ _Oh! When Jubal first did string his harp, ai ai, a bim bam bom, it twanged and twonged and then went sharp, a bim bam bim bam bom...!_ ”

His singing cannot be called on-key even by the most charitable. In his defense, he’s rather drunk. Very happily drunk, lying on a hillside a little ways outside Bethlehem, looking up at the largest, brightest star ever seen.

*

There’s a lot of paperwork lost the day of Sodom’s destruction, including his own, but it takes Aziraphale fully a hundred and fifty years to feel like himself again. The entire experience sticks with him, lodged somewhere under his skin, sometimes jangling against the other parts of his soul so loudly he’s surprised the other demons don’t hear it.

But eventually the comforts of his favorite sins creep back in. Pleasure starts to appeal again, and mischief, and whispers of _what-if_. When he starts spending nights with mortals again, his tastes have grown more particular: playful smiles, narrow hips, easy laughter.

(Sometimes he tells himself that the only reason Crowley thinks he’s so good is because he’s inclined to sins that cause more chaos than harm. The angel would probably be appalled if he knew just how much mischief Aziraphale gets up to when he’s on a roll. Or bored. Or in a Mood[2].)

There’ve been some hints in the Hell-wide memos he gets that God is planning something big. Not like the Flood—this is different, this is something sneakier on Her part, but no one quite knows what yet. And then a memo comes down from the boss: head to Bethlehem and report back on whatever She’s up to.

He’s lucky enough to book the last available room in town. It’s an unusually busy month in Bethlehem, for some reason, both among the humans and the angels whose presence he can feel here.

The same night he arrives a star rises, huge and brilliant and lovely, spilling light as soft and cool as the moon over the city and the surrounding countryside. Aziraphale can’t help but slip out of his room to get a better look.

Somewhere distantly he can hear singing— _Allelujah, Allelujah, the blessed Child is born_. The joy in it and the sweetness of the harmony make his heart and throat hurt a little: he hasn’t heard angelic voices lifted in song in millennia. For whatever reason, either to entice him to greater sins or some perverse attempt at comfort, Satan has kept him abreast of his former post; he knows there’s a new angel of music, directing the choirs, but he hasn’t bothered to learn their name, and he tries not to listen to the details.

All the same, the sound makes him ache.

But the star makes him think of Crowley, and he finds himself drifting after it, a lone figure in white with a high gold collar, unnoticed on the street. He wanders until cobble gives way to dirt, until dirt gives way to grass, until the _hallelujahs_ fade and leave him in merciful quiet.

And then he hears another voice, off-key, and suddenly his heart leaps and bangs against the inside of his chest.

He tears his gaze from the star, blinks down at the landscape he’s meandered into—a quiet hillside, the lights of the town behind him by now as distant as the stars above, and there, bathed in silver light and grinning ear to ear—

“Crowley!”

*

Crowley sits bolt upright, sways, then grins even more hugely. “’Ziraphale! My absolute favorite demon! What are you doing here?” He shakes his head. “Don’t answer that, stupid question. Want a drink?” He holds up a bottle, gesturing to it as though it’s something fantastic instead of just the local wine. Which is not bad, as local wines go. The angel himself looks much, much better than he did in Sodom. His hair is shorter, only shoulder length, and he’s dressed like a resident of the area in his preferred black with a white overrobe and a few pieces of silver decoration.

He tries to get to his feet, but then falls back on his arse again. “ _Oof_. Then again, maybe I should sober up a bit.” His smile is downright impish. “Or not. Come on, have a seat. It’s a virtue for me to be generous and a sin for you to encourage and indulge in drunkenness, so we’ll both win.”

*

Aziraphale’s never seen a drunk angel before. It’s a sight that unexpectedly makes him feel lighter: he’s not at all sure the other demons partake in ‘gross matter’ and angels certainly aren’t _supposed_ to, but Crowley’s not above it himself. And the fact that he’s drunk enough to have problems getting upright is strangely endearing.

But _my absolute favorite demon_ , even spoken in a voice damp with too much wine, brings a helpless smile to his face—even a touch of heat, which he’s glad the starlight conceals.

“If you _must_ insist,” he says, mock-sighing, though he’s sure his grin gives him away, and takes a seat in the grass next to him.

Crowley beams. “I do.” Insist, that is. Not that much insistence seems required.

The angel passes him the bottle and he has a long pull at it—it’s not half bad, actually—before passing it back.

“This one of yours, then?” He gestures broadly up at the star. “Special order for someone’s birthday, it seems like—?”

*

“Mm, that one?” Crowley only takes a quick sip; he’s had a fair bit already, Aziraphale can have the lion’s share of the rest. “Nah. Took myself off star-making duty when I heard they were looking for someone to handle the Garden, haven’t made any for ages. Some flashy upstart did that one. Bit ostentatious.” He tilts his head for a moment, considering the huge star and its long tail, which seems to point towards a particular barn in Bethlehem, then shrugs. “Actually if I’d done it I probably would’ve been even more ostentatious, made it pink or something, so just as well. That’d be one for the songs.”

He hands the bottle back over while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “And yep, birthday. You haven’t heard? Not ’xactly a secret. Can’t be, what with choirs of angels singing for everyone to hear and all that.”

*

Aziraphale nearly chokes stifling a laugh at the mental image of Crowley’s version of the star—he can’t help thinking of that one time Crowley confided sheepishly that he’d tried bright colors for his wings once, and imagining him proudly presenting something gaudy to the Lord to hang in the sky.

As he takes the bottle back he lets out another amused little huff. “You can hardly avoid it, back in town. _Glory_ this and _blessed_ that. Must be a very well-behaved baby.” He’s already considering conjuring up some sort of noisy toy to irritate the child’s parents.[3]

“People have been complaining to the innkeeper that they can’t get any sleep thanks to all the racket,” he jokes. “Usually it’s the baby making all the noise, not the—” he gestures vaguely with the bottle— “celestial harmonies and whatnot.”

*

Crowley wouldn’t really have gone for pink. Too garish[4]. He only said it to make Aziraphale laugh. And look, success! He beams.

“So far yeah, actually, he is, but that’s not why.” If every well-behaved newborn got this much attention, it’d be a lot of work, even given how few and far between well-behaved newborns are. Crowley sits up straight. “Thing is… human mother, yeah? Maryam. Lovely girl. Spirited. Shouted at Gabriel when he brought her the news.” One might think that Crowley doesn’t care much for his seraphic supervisor. One would be correct. Crowley looks positively dreamy-eyed at the mental image for a moment, then shakes it off. “Right, news, right. The thing is, the baby? Is the Son of God. Actual Son of God. Hang on, we had to memorize this part, let me think—” He closes his eyes for a minute, concentrating. “ _For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government shall be upon his shoulder; and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, Almighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace._ ”

Crowley opens his eyes again. “Except for now he’s just called Yeshua. Shorter. That other stuff is a bit of a mouthful for someone who’s only a few hours old.”

*

Sober Crowley is good company on his own, but drunk Crowley is... well, rather a lot of fun, actually. It’s both reassuring and amusing to know he doesn’t care for Gabriel—even when he was a proper angel, Aziraphale always found him a bit of a prick—and the thought of a human girl yelling at an Archangel makes him giggle into his wine. Which isn’t something he does very often.

The Son of God business, though, that earns a raised eyebrow. He might have to go have a look later. From a safe distance, of course, and in the form of a cat, since all cats are at least a little bit demonic and thus one won’t arouse that much suspicion.

“Lot of pressure on an infant,” he says, and takes another drink. “Prince of Peace sounds like a big job for a human. Or... half human, maybe? However that works out.”

He glances over at the angel again, at his lopsided smile and slightly swaying form. Crowley looks so much better than when they last met—and it lightens Aziraphale’s heart, to know that the cruel whims of the Almighty haven’t burned the joy out of him.

“Gave you the night off, then, did they? Or are you skiving off waking up everyone in Bethlehem to spread the good news?”

*

Crowley blows a raspberry. “A night off? Pffffft, no. No one had tonight off. Busiest we’ve all ever been. Just finished my bit already.” He waves a hand. “Get Mama-to-be and Not-Exactly-the-Daddy-to-be to Bethlehem in time, find them a place to stay. Which was tricky, all the rooms had gone. Who would’ve thought it’d be such a popular place?”

He shrugs and leans back on the hillside. “Still, all worked out. Probably part of the plan, even. Half the point is he’s supposed to grow up human, and humans do things like get born in weird places and bond with animals, so he’s off to a great start already. Though most of them don’t have kings visiting and giving rare perfumes and incense as birthday gifts. What’s a baby supposed to do with myrrh, for Heaven’s sake?”

*

At that comment about the rooms, Aziraphale takes another pull off the bottle, to hide a burst of something that isn’t quite embarrassment. Whoops. Still, maybe Crowley’s got a point about the being born in weird places bit. Humans do begin their lives under odd circumstances, and they do love to tell stories about it.

But the bit about the kings makes him giggle again. What a funny mental image—kings bowing and scraping to an hours-old baby. And bringing perfume? They must be either childless themselves, or terrible fathers. Which sort of scans for royalty, come to think of it.

“His parents could sell it in a pinch,” he says. “That or it’ll do them some good when he needs changing.”

Distantly he knows he should probably be thinking about how to write all this up in his report, but honestly, the Heaven with it. He’s getting drunk with his own absolute favorite angel. He’ll worry about work tomorrow. He lays himself back against the hillside, looking up at the other tiny stars around that great one, all shining bravely even though their lights are nearly eclipsed by the silver brilliance of the baby’s birthday star.

*

Crowley bursts into laughter at the idea of Maryam and Yosef using _myrrh_ , of all things, to improve the smell of the air after a dirty nappy event. The idea is inappropriate on a number of levels, and thus hilarious. Also he really is a little bit drunk. Just a little.

“It is _so good_ to see you,” he bursts out, turning his head and grinning hugely at Aziraphale, once he can breathe enough to manage it. “Can’t talk about any of this stuff with the humans. Or other angels either, hardly got any sense of humor, they never know what I’m on about. And they wouldn’t know a decent jug of wine if they had one. How’ve you been?”

*

He’s just tipsy enough that he can still tell himself the wash of warmth that sweeps through his chest is the wine. Which he busies himself drinking more of, since he’s not entirely sure how to take a compliment from an angel, especially since they’re really the only kind he gets[5] .

After a slightly-too-large swallow, he glances over at Crowley, whose smile is so blessed _happy_ it’s impossible not to smile back, to soak in his easy joy. “Can’t complain,” he says, and really, how could he when his path has led him here, to the rare and precious opportunity to get drunk with his only friend? “What about you? You look better.”

That last part slips out before he can clamp down on it.

*

“Yeah, well…” Crowley grimaces just a little and waves his hand in the air. “’d just about have to, wouldn’t I? Mind, it’s only thanks to you that I didn’t just spend the next few weeks smashed in some tavern in Phoenicia or somewhere.”

He glances over, his smile unabashedly fond, then looks back up at the night sky. “And there hasn’t been anything like that unpleasant since, and this task has been rather appealing even if parts of it are still a big mystery. So yeah, I can’t complain either. ‘Specially not now.”

*

Aziraphale can’t help but watch him for a moment—silver light caught in his hair, outlining that sweet smile, filling his eyes—before his fuzzy brain reminds him that he’s probably staring. Even if demons aren’t supposed to have manners, he’d rather not be rude. Not to someone who’s glad to see him.

Besides, the sight lingers when he closes his eyes, conjured up easily as he looks back up at the stars and thinks about the things Crowley told him, that terrible morning after Sodom.

“Good,” he says, unable to summon up even a drop of sarcasm. After all, he is genuinely relieved to know the Almighty isn’t sending Crowley on more cruel assignments. “Glad to hear it.”

There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again, face still turned up to the stars.

“Which ones did you do? Up there. I’ve been wondering.”

*

Crowley looks surprised for a moment— _You think about me when I’m not here?_ —then smiles again, scoots closer. “You can’t see my favorite from here except in summer, have to go to the Southern hemisphere to catch a glimpse. But my next favorite is up there.” He points up. “Capella it’s called now, or Capra. Goat star. It’s a binary, so it’s actually two stars orbiting around a single point, but from this far away they look like just one light…”

He points out various stars, talks about the colors of them, the heat, how they move. The patterns humans draw with them in the night sky, constellations, the way they put their stories up in the sky. Crowley’s always had a love of human imagination. The Seven Sisters, Rigel, the Dog Star. The North Star, beloved all of all navigators.

Crowley gradually begins to sober up a little as they talk for hours, asking and answering questions about stars and the things humans do with them, the tales told. They rest comfortable and easy on the most peaceful and quietly joyous night the world has known for four thousand years.

*

Listening to Crowley talk about the stars is one of the most enjoyable experiences Aziraphale has had in a long time. He’s so passionate about them, about the stories humans make up to attach to them, his obvious joy wrapping around them both like a warm blanket. And as the angel sobers up, Aziraphale gets rather more drunk, till he’s past caring about how sentimental it all is and how foolish his grin must be by now.

And for a little while, shoulder to shoulder on a grassy hillside on that very first Christmas night, he can forget all his old wounds. His pain has all gone quiet; his soul basks in relief. Though he’s a bit too soused to realize it now, he’ll end up carrying these few hours of peace for the rest of his existence, a little reservoir of memory that he’ll reach for when the world and the things he does in it exhaust him.

At length, though, the thought of paying a visit to this Very Special Birthday Boy creeps back in—a thought he giggles at, quietly, if only because it’s all sort of ridiculous in a charming way. But then another thought jangles loose, in the way that sometimes happens to a brain softened up by an abundance of good alcohol, and he turns to look at Crowley.

“Hey,” he says. “Why’d _you_ talk to _me_? On the wall. Could’ve just—” He gestures, loosely indicating something that could either be smiting or lecturing. “But you didn’t. An’ I hadn’t even got you lunch yet.”

*

Crowley is passionate about everything he loves, and he loves so many things. The stars, the earth, humans. All things curious and creative and interesting. Stories, music, wine. Sitting with a friend and talking.

By now he’s pleasantly mellow instead of falling-over talkative, a little more clear-headed. Even so, what Aziraphale’s gesture is meant to imply, Crowley can’t guess. An attack? He couldn’t attack an ant successfully, even if he tried. Well, perhaps an ant. If he were drunk. And not paying attention.

“Why not?” he says instead, a bit confused by the question. Though it’s fair enough, he supposes; he’d asked the same one last time. “You weren’t attacking me or anything. Hadn’t hurt the humans either, aside from tempting, and I’ve never thought that was such a bad thing. Just choices. Think She wanted them to have choices, to choose to have choices…”

That’s getting afield though, and Crowley shakes his head a little, trying to refocus. “Anyway, you weren’t even being rude, so why would I be rude back? Besides, I was curious.” A flare of a smile. He’s always curious. If an angel can have a besetting sin, that’s his. “And you talked back to me. Not back to me as in rude, but, there was…” He waves a hand in the air above them. “Conversation. Liked it. Wanted more of it.”

There’s a moment of quiet, and then he adds, almost shy about it, “You _laughed_ with me.”

*

The words bring with them a rush of memory, pleasantly misty now that he’s good and drunk, and the smile that crosses Aziraphale’s face is almost dreamy. “Couldn’t help it,” he says, helpless to hold it back. “Never saw an angel laugh before. Or since, except you.”

Even in Heaven, his songs had inspired wonder and joy but not laughter. That had been the humans’ domain, or else the result of cruel mockery Below—but Crowley made it seem easy, natural, wonderful. Against the darkness of Aziraphale’s broken heart that laughter had scattered like stars, and like stars it lit his way through the years ahead, steering him away from despair.

“Come to think of it,” he adds, “never saw another angel eat anything. Or lie around in the grass singing. Or...”

 _Or cry over humans_ , he almost says, but manages to rein himself in at the last moment.

“Or pet a cat,” he finishes, and that thought tilts his smile a touch.

*

Aziraphale has never looked this happy that Crowley knows of except for that one time they had a picnic. But he’s more relaxed tonight, softer. The edgy tension of him is gentled in the moonlight, his hair the same silvery color…

It occurs to Crowley that he hasn’t felt this happy since that picnic, either. _Wish you always looked like this._

He'd wave off all the other comments about things he does, say yet again that he’s not really like other angels, but then Aziraphale mentions petting cats and Crowley abruptly turns bright red. “Should I apologize for that?” He runs a hand back through his hair. “I mean, I hadn’t asked, bit invasive and all, just, I was worried and distracted and I like cats and, I, uh…”

If he blushes any harder he might combust.

*

The angel is so blessed cute when he’s flustered that Aziraphale just can’t help himself.

With a quick snap of his fingers his entire form changes, shrinking down into the fluffy white cat—it’s a little weird to be drunk on four paws, but thankfully this body is good enough at balance on its own that he doesn’t have to worry too much about tipping over and falling down the hill. And Crowley is close enough that Aziraphale can just climb right onto his chest and sprawl there, purring to beat the band[6], tail swishing.

(Later he’ll be fiercely embarrassed at himself, at how bloody sentimental and soft and _obvious_ a gesture it is. But right now he’s drunk enough that it seems like a perfect idea, especially since Crowley is so warm.)

“Nice perk of being a cat,” he drawls, “is everyone expects you to bite if you don’t like who’s petting you.”

*

Crowley spends a distracted moment wondering how Aziraphale can snap his fingers while tipsy (he’s pretty sure he can’t), and another second wondering where the demon went, and then there’s a fluffy white weight on his chest. He laughs with every bit as much wondering delight as he did the first time he felt raindrops kiss his palms.

Since that transformation couldn't have been more of an invitation if Aziraphale had also miracled up a sign saying ‘Please Pet Me!’, Crowley does, though he raises an eyebrow and puts on his most dubious expression as he does it (the dubiousness is not very convincing, not with him trying and largely failing to resist a smile).

“So I’m at risk of getting my fingers nipped off?” he teases. “Oh well, I’ll take the chance. You do have lovely fur like this.” Those long fingers know how to stroke from head to tail, how to scritch behind the ears, how to never go against the fur.

*

His purring grows even louder; with a cat’s instinct for affection he butts his head into Crowley’s palm, whiskers trailing along the inside of his wrist, forepaws kneading the air with pure contentment. Like the very best humans, Crowley knows all the right things to do: scritches behind the ears and at the corner of the jaw and under the chin, long strokes down the length of his back, never too close to the paws or the belly.

If Heaven had any sense, he thinks, it’d feel like this, instead of what it actually is. Was. Still is? He can’t imagine it’s changed much.

“Mmm, thank you,” he rumbles, with the pleased tone of someone who knows exactly how pretty he is and feels very accomplished for it. “Usually just housewives who tell me that. And other cats[7].”

*

Crowley sighs happily and gets both of his hands involved, one of them sliding all the way down the tail, letting it wind around his fingers. “Can you talk to other cats, then?” His eyes are wide, fascinated. “That’d be interesting. Sounds useful, too.”

*

“Only when they feel like talking. But yes.” The tip of his tail flicks against Crowley’s palm; the purring doesn’t stop for a moment. Being petted has been something of a guilty pleasure for him since he first decided to try a cat’s form. “Cats notice all sorts of things humans ignore. And they always know where the best fish is. I highly recommend it, if you’re ever looking to try on an animal.”

*

“That does sound like cats.” Past masters of making themselves understood without language, they are. Crowley chuckles at the brush of long fur along his palm and repeats the gesture, going back to the top of Aziraphale’s head and stroking along all the way to the tip of his tail. If being petted is a guilty pleasure, he's glutting himself on it, and Crowley to all appearances perfectly content to be used for the purpose.

“Me?” His hands pause for just a moment in astonishment, then resume, though they’re a bit more slow and distracted. “Huh,” Crowley says finally. “You know, I never thought about doing that? No reason why I couldn’t, though. I don’t think.” He frowns a little. “I’d hate to not be able to change back, though. Hmm.”

*

“Why wouldn’t you be able to change back? Or would you be in violation of some dress code rule?” Aziraphale nearly giggles at the thought, though with his face the way it is it merely looks like he’s smirking at having caught a particularly fat mouse. “I could probably coach you through justifying it to whoever might give you guff about it. S’useful for recon... reconniff... for finding things out.”

His paws flex again, and for possibly the first time in this form there’s not a hint of claw, all his hidden sharpness at rest for once. One of the things Aziraphale appreciates most about this form is that the soft bits of a cat reliably hide their pointy bits, but it’s a real luxury to have those defenses at his disposal and no need for them.

*

Crowley waves his hands in the air, which means he stops petting for a minute. “Might forget what I look like! ‘m sure I could jus—jussif—explain being something else for a while to Up There, but it’d be a bit awkward to say ‘Wait, remind me, what did my body look like again? I forgot.’”

It’s possible they’ve already both had too much wine. It’s also possible one or the other of them kept surreptitiously refilling the bottle now and then. It’s a night for celebration, after all, and the rich merchant below won’t miss it much.

*

Aziraphale butts his head against Crowley’s wrist, insistently: _hands are for petting me with, not gesturing, idiot_. “You’ve had this body, what, four thousand years? It’ll remember what it looks like. Or you could look me up for a reminder.”

It’s dangerously close to flirting, but he’s drunk and rather floppy, and it’s the truth. He could draw Crowley’s face, male or female, from memory. If he had thumbs. _When_ he has thumbs. Later. Though actually he’ll have to learn to draw first, and—this is getting very complicated.

*

Crowley realizes, rather fuzzily, that he’s extremely comfortable with a cat warming part of his chest. And headbutting his hand in search of more pets, which are absently granted. “Might get details wrong,” he says, also absently. He’s still wondering what sorts of interesting shapeshifting disasters he might inflict on himself. “End up with yellow eyes or red hair or too many joints. Risky.”

*

When Aziraphale is in a cat’s body it’s easy to forget certain things that go with a human form, like personal space, and the fact they’re on opposite sides of something pretty big, and the report he’ll be expected to make about this whole Yeshua business. His priorities have reduced themselves to a very short list: receive pets, and remain in comfortable spot.

“You’d look good as a redhead. Not sure about the rest of it, though. Probably better to stick with the joints you’ve got.” Crowley’s fingers curl below one of his ears, at the corner of his jaw, and he rubs his face into the angel’s palm in the manner of all pleased cats. “What would you be, though? If you knew you could change back just fine any time you liked? And don’t say a dove.”

*

It’s easy to forget certain things that go with being sober, like boundaries, and knowing intellectually they’re on opposite sides even though it’s never once felt as though they are, and how little Crowley really knows about Aziraphale. There are a lot of questions he hasn’t asked and probably should. But it’s easy to forget things you don’t want to think about.

“Nah, not a dove, I’ll leave that kind of showy symbolism to other angels.” Crowley considers for a moment, his fingers kneading gently along Aziraphale’s feline head. “A sparrow, maybe. Like sparrows. Or a snake, like them too. The way they move, all—” He uses one of his hands to make a wiggly motion in the air.

*

At the mention of snakes and the way they move, Aziraphale smiles, as widely as a cat ever can. It certainly fits him—if Crowley put in even a minimum of effort he could be properly slinky, a tempter to match any fantasy Aziraphale has ever woven to humans with whispers or suggestive fragments of music. Even then, he suspects, Crowley would still be better than any of the Host. Kinder, more merciful, the sort of tempter who offers delight before sin.

(The kneading is wonderfully relaxing. He’s more or less melted into a happy boneless puddle of fluff on Crowley’s chest, gleefully shedding long soft strands of fur all over the angel’s black and white garments.)

“I like snakes.” He yawns, a flash of sharp teeth and pink tongue. “Smart animals. They get so much done without limbs. Tried out being a snake right at the beginning, but it didn’t really suit me. ‘Sides, people don’t pet snakes, or give them nice bits of fish. You’ve tried fish, haven’t you? Great stuff, even raw. Long as you’re careful of the bones.”

*

“I could hardly forget you were a snake at first.” Crowley looks amused, runs one finger along the edge of Aziraphale's ear. “ _Serpent of Eden_ and all that. Just as well, _Great Big Fluffy Cat of Eden_ doesn’t have the same weight to it.” His fingers run under the head, carefully petting the underside of the jaw. “Should have guessed you had ulterior motives for this shape, you hedonist. But I’d still pet you if you were a snake. And give you fish. If snakes eat fish. Do snakes eat fish?”

*

Aziraphale tips his head back, eyes closing in pure contentment—he does love a good chin rub. It’s possibly a minor miracle that he manages to keep himself from drooling all over Crowley’s hand like a truly happy cat. “Mmm, some do, I think. The ones that swim. Sea snakes, definitely.”

He opens his eyes again, blinking up at the star above them.

“Why’d you quit star duty for the Garden?”

The question sort of tumbles out of him—he can’t help it, he’s curious and drunk and this whole night has been so peaceful.

*

Crowley’s hands go still. So does his breath. The question takes him that much by surprise, jolts him out of this peaceful reverie into something else.

It’s only for a moment. His hands move again, returning to idle strokes along Aziraphale’s back. And he does answer. It just takes a minute, and his voice is much quieter when he does.

“The War, mostly.” The War in Heaven, he means. The first one, the biggest one, which changed everything right down to the fundamental fabric of the universe. Nothing humans do on earth will ever match it. “It’s a little more complicated than that, but…” Crowley sighs. “Couldn’t go back, after… some of the things that happened. Tried, but couldn’t...settle into it again. When I heard they wanted volunteers for the new place, I figured, why not? At least there wouldn’t be so much…”

 _So much silence_ , he doesn’t say. So many absences, and one above all. He hasn’t thought of lost Israfel’s voice for a long time, it seems, but he still remembers the glory of it The way hearing it would light him up from within. The skies were so empty without that.

Crowley still doesn’t understand why Israfel Fell. It was wrong. That fundamental belief, more than anything else, is what separates him from other angels: the idea that God has, can possibly, have done something wrong. But how can he say it to anyone, above or below, without making things worse? So he just says it to God, sometimes. Asks her why, then asks her why he hasn’t Fallen yet just for asking.

(She still never answers. He still doesn’t expect Her to.)

Crowley is quiet another moment, then adds, “Then I just liked it. I still miss Eve. She had the most beautiful laugh. I’d forgotten what joy sounded like for a while, ’til she laughed at me. Did I ever tell you she gave me my name?”

*

There’s something so sad about the way Crowley answers his question that for a moment Aziraphale is almost shocked into sobriety. He talks about the War like he’d lost something that day, like it hadn’t been a victory at all. Like he might have been separated from a friend or a loved one. Which is itself both a sad thought and one that stirs up a flash of envy so intense he forgets to breathe.

_Who do you mourn for? Who in the pit of Hell could once have claimed your affection, the most precious thing the universe has to offer?_

But then Crowley’s voice lightens, and he rubs the back of Aziraphale’s neck with graceful fingers, and he lets the feeling melt back into the shadows of his heart.

“I wondered which of them it was,” he says, paws flexing absently. “It’s a good name. Fits you. Always wished I could have had a little more time to talk to Eve, she seemed interesting.”

Technically he could try talking to her in Hell, but the souls there rarely have more to offer in conversation than lamentations or blank grieving stares, and anyway the atmosphere there is always terrible for his throat.

*

“She was.” There's a wistful note in Crowley's voice. “Both of them were, but her especially. Adam was dreamy and rather sweet, and Eve was all…” He waves a hand. He does that a lot. “All spark and energy. The first time she saw my black wings she laughed and laughed and then ran around flapping her arms and cawing like a crow. I didn’t know how to react at first, then realized I was laughing too.”

He smiles, fond in remembrance, looking up at the stars without seeing them. “I’d forgotten what it was like to feel happy, until that. I was so grateful I could have wept, but instead I laughed, and that delighted her just as much. She made Adam come up with names for me until he found one she liked. He loved naming things.”

*

_And I’d forgotten what it was like to feel happy, until you laughed and showed me how it was done._

Aziraphale rolls to his side, cheek pressing against the space over Crowley’s heart—it’s the first time he’s aware of its beat, steady and silent. It’s a good thing wine is fogging his brain and the cat’s form is naturally somewhat secretive: if he were in a human body Crowley wouldn’t have to guess at his secrets, and it wouldn’t last a fraction as long as this easy closeness has.

Even so, it takes him a moment to come up with words that won’t betray him.

“Anyone else would probably have lectured him about rules and decorum,” he says, the purr still thrumming under his voice. “Glad it was you.”

*

“They’re not _all_ like that up in Heaven!” Crowley protests, laughing a little. “...mostly. Though I’m glad it was me, too. Obviously. Can’t get anyone there to call me by Crowley, though. Too bad. Like it much better than my other name. Are you always this affectionate as a cat, or is it just when you’re drunk? Or both?”

It’s not that he’s trying to change the subject, it’s just all the lounging around using his chest as a pillow is pretty noticeable, especially once Aziraphale lies down completely. Crowley doesn’t seem to mind, given that he’s still stroking along Aziraphale’s back and neck and ears.

*

“I am not affectionate,” Aziraphale grumbles, but since he’s currently both drunk and a cat it doesn’t come across very as convincing. “I am a hedonist, and you’re good at petting cats—mm, yes, exactly like that, thank you. Besides, it’s a good way to lure you into being tempted to carry me around. So there.”

(But the part about Crowley’s name, that he tucks into his heart alongside the other treasures the angel has given him when they’ve met up, another light in the constellation Crowley has created across the darkness of his existence.)

“Talking of which,” he adds, sleepily, “should probably pay a visit to this very important baby. See what a Prince of Peace looks like.”

*

“Of course you’re not,” Crowley says, his voice heavy with amusement. “This is all purely self-motivated on your part and you’re taking shameful advantage of my good nature, and it has nothing to do with my having said I liked cats and fretting about having pet you that one time without asking permission first. Pure selfishness on your part.”

Does he sound skeptical? Oh, just a little. Or a lot. Hard not to be given how Aziraphale is snuggled against his chest and purring like mad. Crowley might not have much experience with any sort of affection being directed his way but he’s not wholly unaware.

“Though if that was an unsubtle hint that I should carry you down and introduce you to the Christ Child, you’ll have to move first.” He has the terrible audacity to stop petting at that point, in case it helps.

*

Aziraphale makes an absolutely piteous meowing noise at the abrupt lack of petting—every cat’s way of saying _oh, come on, surely I’m cute enough that you could keep petting me forever_ —but reluctantly he gets back to all four feet, back and tail arching as he stretches.

“All _right_ , but if you make me walk I’ll chew your ankles. Or cough up a hairball onto your shoes.”

He’s only a bit wobbly as he pads down off of Crowley’s chest and into the grass immediately beside him.

“And before you say it, this Christ Child only gets the hairball treatment if he pulls my tail.”

He’s still absolutely going to conjure up some sort of noisemaking toy for the baby, though. It’ll be first-degree mischief, which has always been Aziraphale’s second or third favorite sin, depending on what sort of a mood he happens to be in on any given day. And getting to rub a little brimstone on the Son of God on his birthday is a fun bonus.

*

Crowley laughs at the meow of protest, providing one last quick scratch behind the ears as Aziraphale stretches. “You’d have to catch me first,” he says, sitting up and stretching and grinning. “And I’m willing to bet I’m faster than you. But fine, vain creature, I’ll carry you along. To protect you from the terrible threat of getting your tail pulled, mind, since I am of course good and virtuous in all ways.” Said with a distinct air of _and if you believe that I have a camel to sell you, only one owner from new, I’d keep it myself but my arse fell off so I don’t ride camels anymore._

*

“The very best of angels,” Aziraphale says, rather more sincerely than he probably should, before he leaps up onto Crowley’s shoulders and settles himself around his neck like an extremely plush fur collar. “And a good friend, to boot.”

This, at least, he’s not as self-conscious about admitting. In fact it actually feels sort of nice, finally saying it aloud: _we’re friends, you and I, in spite of every reason we shouldn’t be._

No one in the barn recognizes him for what he is, in this form. Maryam—who’s a rather nice girl, really—pats him gently on the head, and when the miraculous babe stirs and begins to fuss in his manger Aziraphale neatly flows down off Crowley’s shoulders to settle in on the child’s chest and start purring. (Although being in contact with the Son of God does make his paws smart a little, the way they might if he were walking on hot cobblestones.) Within minutes Yeshua is soothed back to sleep, and Aziraphale looks possibly more smug than any cat before him has ever managed.

*

Crowley blushes, both at the _very best of angels_ (which he really isn’t) and the _good friend_ (which he hopes he is), and his smile is a little too large and too bright, so it’s a good thing the cat is on his shoulders and can’t see. He reaches up to give one last caress to that soft fur before walking down the hill.

It occurs to him it’s deeply problematic to be introducing a demon to the Christ Child, but it seems to Crowley it might as well be gotten over with. Part of Yeshua’s task is to undo the taint of original sin, and it was Aziraphale who orchestrated original sin to begin with. Sort of. Depends on perspective. The point is, it seems inevitable to Crowley that the two of them will come head to head one way or another eventually, so he might as well introduce them now.

Though it’s hard to see them as adversaries of any kind at present: the helpless child lulled to sleep by the purring of a large, soft cat.

Crowley watches them beatifically, and knows peace.

* * *

1. Crowley felt a little guilty about that bit of deception, not least as Maryam herself hadn't been fooled at all about the true source of the miracle. Still, it'd done the trick. Even so, the carol that will eventually be written about it will never be one of his favorites.↩

2. For instance, he’s the originator of several folk traditions that persist to this day which involve leaving food out to appease various types of spirits in and around houses and places of business.↩

3. It's already become one of his favorite ways to spite humans he didn’t like; he could get a lot of frustration out of the gift of a penny whistle or a small drum. Just ask any frazzled parent whose child is going through the ‘Look, I can make it make so many noises!’ phase of development.↩

4. Though he might well have made it blue, or at least gold. Something other than more silver. And the tail would definitely have been twice as long. But these are minor details.↩

5. Even work awards and commendations in Hell tend to be phrased either passive-aggressively to encourage discord and jealousy, or so as to emphasize the suffering and/or consternation a demon has caused.↩

6. Or, in this case, the Heavenly choirs.↩

7. In fact several other cats Aziraphale had met in his wanderings had taken a liking to the idea of a long white coat, and decided they wanted to give it a go themselves. Most of these happened to be in an area of the world now known as Turkey, and to this day Turkish Vans are among the fluffiest and most self-satisfied-looking of the domesticated cats.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did promise a chapter of fluff and footnotes!
> 
> Both book and show of Good Omens are deliberately vague as to whether or not Jesus Christ was truly son of God/able to perform miracles/etc etc. We've decided to run with it mostly because we have ideas we want to play with. 
> 
> Regarding Crowley and sparrows, see [Choose Your Faces Wisely](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20028514) by Poetry, which I cannot praise too highly and which affected me profoundly in a number of ways. (My strong feelings about the fate of Lot's wife predate reading that fic but it certainly made me more determined to include her in ours). - Ashfae
> 
>  **Ashfae** can be found at [tumblr](https://ashfae.tumblr.com/) if you like, Goose in PMs to **mostlyjustgoose** here in A03. Or if you want to be particularly lovely and please the gods of fandom karma you could leave a comment for us. We'll smile a lot if you do. ;)


	9. The Temptation of Christ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man and a demon meet in a desert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: Discussion of religion and God's motivations, discussion of mass death including the deaths of children (not explicit), crucifixtion.

The Christ Child turns out to be a major thorn in Satan’s side.

Not for the first few years, mind—for a while he’s not much different from any human child, growing and learning, perhaps a little more thoughtful than most human beings his age. But there’s a very important distinction between Yeshua of Nazareth and the rest of humanity: he never commits a single sin. Not even once, not even by accident. He seems totally immune to all the little temptations the world has to offer.

It takes about thirty years for a really good opportunity to come along, and that’s when Satan decides to send out the big guns[1]. The big guns, in this case, being the demon who tempted humanity into its very first sin.

Aziraphale isn’t exactly happy about the assignment. Orders that come down from the very top (or up from the very bottom, if you prefer) have much more riding on them these days, especially since Sodom. And he’ll be expected to put in extra effort—his moves will be watched carefully, perhaps even studied in the future if he manages to pull it off.

Still, he tells himself, he doesn’t have to tempt the fellow into murder or starting a war. He just has to manage one sin. And while little sins are no guarantee that a soul won’t still turn out virtuous on the whole, they will at least drag him back down to the level of everyone else on earth.

One imperfection, to thwart whatever the Lord is planning. Just one. Any little sin.

The desert between Jerusalem and Jericho is vast and lonely, a bleak landscape with little comfort to offer and only a harsh sort of beauty. During the hottest part of the day, the hours when a fasting man might find himself dreaming of a meal and a jug of cool water, Aziraphale makes his way through the wilderness, wings shimmering under the burning sunlight.

He’s brought his flute with him, and as he approaches the gaunt young man sitting in thoughtful silence among the rocks he plays, a song that whispers of a life where simple comforts and mundane everyday sins live hand in hand.

*

The man sitting in the desert speaks of mercy and compassion to others, but at this time has given himself very little. He sits on a bit of blanket to protect himself from the hot sand, but he sits in the open, the unforgiving sun pounding down from above. There are few shadows nearby with the sun at its highest point, but he still could have chosen another place: a shadowed rock to rest against, an overhang, some small hint of respite. He has not.

He sits in the open, entirely vulnerable and with nothing to assist him, not even the elements. His eyes are closed and his face upturned as he meditates.

When he hears the music his eyebrow twitches, his mouth quirks, but otherwise he doesn’t move. He listens in stillness to the song the demon plays: the bewitching simplicity of it: an ordinary life, with all the sweetness and possibility that includes.

When Aziraphale draws closer, he opens his eyes, smiling a little as though he’s been expecting the demon. When the song ends, he says only, “That was very beautiful.”

*

The words are spoken mildly, sincerely, and even so there’s a hint of challenge in them. This is going to be worlds harder than tempting Eve was. Not that Aziraphale expected it to be easy, but now that he’s face to face with the man, he’s keenly aware that behind those mild brown eyes is a resolve that hasn’t been matched in anyone he’s tempted before.

“Thank you,” he says, because even if he is a demon he still makes a point of being polite, and moves to sit on a rock a few feet away. “Can I offer you some water, or something? No strings attached.”

This, he’s found, is a good opening—a little comfort, before he really gets going. Set them at ease first, then start to plant the seeds of revolution. And he does look hungry, as anyone might who’s been in the desert forty days and forty nights.

(Forty days, forty nights. Once upon a time he’d spent that long in dark caves, playing the flute for all he was worth, music to sustain and encourage and tempt the children who were never supposed to survive. To keep them and the unicorns dreaming through the uncertain dark until at last the rain stopped and the waters began slowly to recede. To thwart Heaven and spite God, he’d said in his report, leaving out the angel who had looked so distraught at the thought of children drowning.)

*

The man keeps smiling gently, though he seems briefly amused. It’s hard to tell. There’s no raised eyebrow or quirk of the mouth to indicate it, merely a sense of beneficient amusement. “No, thank you. I have all I need.”

This seems, on the face of it, a ludicrous statement. He’s a man sitting in the desert. His head is covered and he has a blanket to sit on, he has clothes. He has nothing else. No food, no water, no shelter. His eyes do not burn with zeal or religious fervor. He is thin and unprotected and fragile.

But he smiles, and says he needs nothing.

*

There’s a silent strength to the man that almost gives Aziraphale pause—zeal can be twisted, starvation can be appeased, ambition can be stoked, but serenity is difficult to make a dent in. He doesn’t even seem smug, which is a little disconcerting. But possibly there’s a way in, because there’s always a way in with humans, and there are so many tiny sins that do little harm besides tarnishing the sinner’s soul.

And he has to be human enough for those, at least. Aziraphale remembers a baby stirring, the beginnings of a thin cry before he slipped into the manger to purr him back to sleep, and surely anyone who was once a crying newborn has to have an imperfect enough soul to be drawn in by the right siren song.

“Well. The offer stands, if you want it.”

He shifts, dark silver wings settling, tucks the flute back into his sleeve.

“You know,” he says at length, slow and thoughtful, “a man could do a lot of good, with power like yours.”

*

Yeshua smiles, a little more obviously amused this time. “One could,” he agrees. “One could also do great harm. Power is a dangerous illusion. The only true power in the world comes from God above, for only He sees all things clearly.”

*

“That last part I wouldn’t be too sure of, if I were you.”

Aziraphale keeps his tone light, but the thought is bitter to him. If She sees so clearly, why would She keep sending the kindest of Her angels on missions designed to break his heart? Why would She hurl one of Her angels into Hell for singing? Why would She do half the cruel things She does?

But by now he’s an expert at pushing those thoughts back into the shadows of his heart, away from the light of the present, and that’s exactly what he does.

“Besides, whether you want to call it power or not, you’ve got quite a gift. Reality listens to you. If you wanted, you could turn these stones into enough bread to feed every man, woman, and child in Jerusalem. In the entire world, come to think of it.”

*

Something like sympathy enters Yeshua’s eyes, something much too knowing, but he lets that remark pass unanswered.

At the other, he smiles again. “I could,” he agrees. “And for a day there would be rejoicing and great gladness.” He tilts his head, his eyes meeting Aziraphale’s without hesitation. “But what would happen on the next day?”

*

A tickle starts in the back of Aziraphale’s throat.

“Whatever you wanted to happen, obviously,” he says mildly, but already he knows this isn’t going to go well. “You could provide for your fellow man for as long as you wanted.”

*

“For as long as I wanted.”

Yeshua sighs and looks briefly wistful. “And there would be peace, perhaps, for a time. Peace on earth, with all needs met. But at what cost? What would be learned from such actions, and what would happen when my mortal life ended?” He shakes his head. “No. That is not my task.”

*

There’s something about that sigh that reminds him of Crowley, for a moment—of a quiet hour in the smoky morning above Sodom and Gomorrah, of a good soul wrestling with pain and conflict beyond reckoning. But he can’t stop now. Hell is watching, with bated breath.

Aziraphale stands, and offers Yeshua his hand.

“Can I show you something?”

Yeshua lets out a long breath as though steeling himself for something, then nods and takes the demon’s hand, using it to help himself stand.

Just as there was thirty years ago when he climbed into the baby’s manger, there’s a faint hot sting to the touch of Yeshua’s hand, a concentrated holiness that almost burns him. But Aziraphale holds on to that almost, reminds himself that any little sin will do, and then changes the space around them.

It’s little more than the blink of an eye before the desert landscape around them becomes the roof of a temple, a high place in a great city, with a magnificent view. He’s always admired how humans have built beyond their capabilities, inventing what they could only imagine. Though they haven’t attempted anything quite on the level of Babel, their creations are still impressive, often stunningly beautiful.

At the height of midday, no one sees them. The sky above is a cloudless arch, the murmur of human life distant below them. The air here is cooler, a breeze stirring his feathers, a momentary respite from the relentless heat of the desert.

“That’s better,” he declares, and lets go of Yeshua’s hand, resisting the urge to shake it out as if he’s had hold of a hot poker for too long.

*

Yeshua gasps, his eyes wide with wonder and amazement. He looks around slowly, taking in every detail. It’s a spectacular place, there’s no question: the city is vast, and the temple a work of art and detail, glorious in the sunlight. The sounds of the city are muffled and distant, but still can be heard: the calling of voices, animals, things moving and clanking and living, a woman’s high voice raised in song.

“It is wonderful,” he says, his voice hushed. The wind blows around them. “Where is it?”

*

“Jerusalem.”

From this high up the city shines in the glorious way that only happens when human effort and natural beauty intersect. Beneath his feet the roof is hot—not from the sunlight, but from the holiness of the place it houses—but the breeze fills Aziraphale’s lungs, brings him snatches of music from far below, and he can’t help smiling.

“Fascinating place. There’s a fellow in the main market who always has the best pomegranates—pears too, when they’re in season. Good place to start a ministry.”

*

Yeshua’s face spasms a little at the name. “Jerusalem,” he repeats, his low tone a mixture of longing and grief.

He turns in place, making a full circle so as to see everything—the city bustling with life and energy, the beautiful land on which it’s set. “It is magnificent,” he says quietly. “And I thank you for showing it to me.”

*

He’s so _polite_. There’s not a drop of sarcasm or smugness in him. If he were an ordinary human he’d already be one in a million, but it’s doubly surprising since he’s the Son of God, at least to Aziraphale. All he’s known of God for millennia is cruelty, a twisted sense of humor, and an utter lack of mercy, but Her son is astonishingly different.

“My pleasure,” he says, and means it. “You know, from up here, if you wanted, you could show everyone what you are. Get the ministry started with a bang, so no one can have any doubts.”

*

Yeshua looks back at him for a moment, the weight of his gaze profound without being judgemental. Then he smiles, with sudden sweetness. “I have no wish to do things ‘with a bang’, as you put it. Your first instinct was the better. A simple life with simple joys would be my ambition, were I ambitious. But I am not, and my life is not my own to direct. My ministry will not be one of ambition, but of humility and compassion.

“Even so…” He looks again at Jerusalem. “Even so, it is very beautiful. I am glad to see it from this perspective.”

*

There—the spark of inspiration, of a potential way in. He swallows back his misgivings, which are only growing under the light of that kind smile.

“Is that your task, then?” he asks, his voice shaded with genuine curiosity. “To give up the ability to direct your life, the greatest gift of all mortal men?”

*

“No.” Yeshua’s smile grows a little, open and warm. “My task is the same as yours, Serpent of Eden. To give mankind choices.”

*

It’s a touch startling to be known for what he is, or at least what he became after his Fall, but then again this is the Son of God. He’s probably privy to all sorts of information from Heaven’s files.

“More choices, you mean?” He can’t help it—he has to know. “Mankind already has so many, great and small.”

*

Yeshua nods, looking back over the city. “More options, and better than they have had—if they will take them. In my way I am to be as much a tempter as you.” He smiles a little, looking at humanity below. “So I am glad to meet you, now, before my task truly begins.”

*

In the mouth of any other human, those words might have stirred up a familiar revelation: _oh, he’s untethered from reality, probably start spouting something about how the sun is his wife next_. But coming from this man, they sound like a gentle conviction, firm and unwavering.

Aziraphale’s heart sinks. Not just because of the difficulty of his task, but because he knows what kind of horrible things God puts good souls through. He’s seen it before. Terrible trials, things that weigh on the spirit as much as sin. And even if Her intentions are good, which he has difficulty believing even on the best of days, human structures of power distrust kindness like this man’s.

He could, he knows, keep talking about the miracles Yeshua could work, the ways he could use the incredible power he’s been given. Except he already knows that wouldn’t work. Not on a soul like this.

But maybe the truth will.

Again he holds out his hand.

“Let me show you something else.”

*

Yeshua looks a bit longer at Jerusalem, as though memorizing the view—here, from above, where only the beauty of it can be seen.

Then, with calm, unwavering trust, he puts his hand in the demon’s.

No, not trust. Faith.

*

Again space changes around them, folding as Aziraphale’s thoughts carry them to a place he hasn’t been in centuries.

The plain is still barren, the foundations of the ruined cities still a jumble of dead rock, silent and scorched. Nothing grows where these twin cities once stood; here and there bleached bones, not quite recognizable as human, dot the landscape. They’ve been picked clean by the few scavenging animals that found a home here for a while; now only insects and a handful of reptiles can survive here. Even birds only pass over this place in migration. It’s a mass grave, as silent as death.

He doesn’t have to look over at Yeshua to know he knows exactly where they are.

“You’re wondering why we’re here,” Aziraphale says, quietly, “where your Heavenly Father punished people for their wickedness. All over and done with, all in the past. But the stories always leave out the screaming. You could hear it from the other end of the plain, that day. Men, women, children, trying to find one another, trying to get out. Burning alive. Being crushed by homes they’d built.”

He glances over, taking in the young man’s silence.

“You can’t imagine now how terrible it was, but you won’t have to—you’ll see it firsthand. God will make you watch. Every time. You won’t be able to look away. It’ll be done in your name.”

*

For the first time the young man looks shaken, the grief in his eyes a wound. He listens in silence, motionless, his expression grave.

After a long time he closes his eyes, draws in a ragged breath. “You are more dangerous and more perceptive than I anticipated, Serpent of Eden,” he says softly, clearly pained. “I do not think any other of your kind would have thought of such an argument, much less realized its strength.”

*

Aziraphale’s not sure how to feel about being called _dangerous_. Technically he is, he’s meant to be, he’s lost count of how many humans he’s tempted to sin, but something about the word is like an insect’s bite, itching and hot, the smallest nip of pain.

Aziraphale tilts his head a little, indicating the plain—or, rather, the tiny white figure in the middle of it, still and unmoving, with a human’s shape.

“Lot’s wife,” he says. “All she did was look back. I could show you all the houses at the bottom of the sea, where whole families were washed away by the Flood. Or the graves of all the firstborn sons of Egypt taken in the plague—so many small coffins, so many innocents punished for the sins of one king. God makes an example out of human lives without caring about who’s left to mourn, in all the kingdoms of the world. _God does not forgive_. And you will have to watch, and tell everyone who follows you that it’s for the best, no matter how harsh, no matter how unfair. Is that really the life you want?”

*

Yeshua stares at the plain, at the white rock standing in the middle, frozen there forever in her last statement of grief. He listens in silence, and considers, his gaze sorrowful.

“ _No one is cast off by the Lord forever_ ,” he says softly, quoting holy scripture. “ _Though He brings grief, He will show compassion, so great is His unfailing love, for He does not willingly bring affliction or grief to anyone._ You are wrong, Serpent, when you say He does not forgive. _I_ am His forgiveness, made manifest on Earth. That is my task. To learn and teach, and to make of myself a pathway, that all might come to my Father’s side if they wish it.” He grimaces a little. “It will not be easy. But I am guided by the Lord, and He is my strength; I shall not falter.”

*

Bitterness rises in the back of Aziraphale’s throat, an anger and grief that began before humanity and has only compounded over the years as he’s seen what the Lord and most of Her angels do to the world.

“Where is the forgiveness for the mothers who woke with dead babies in their arms because their distant king was stubborn?” he demands, and his eyes flare with blue fire. “Where is the forgiveness for a woman who only hoped there could be mercy on her former neighbors? For all the children who died as your own parents fled Bethlehem? Did you know about that? Did your ministering angels ever tell you that Herod sent his soldiers across the countryside not long after you were born, to kill every child under the age of two? Would you like me to tell you what your Father’s forgiveness looked like then? I could show you.”

The sensation of a hand on the back of his neck, of the jolt of cold realization before the Fall, echoes in his bones.

“I know you want to do good in this world. I know you want to relieve suffering. I don’t blame you; it's one of the most noble things the human heart can feel. But God’s idea of doing good is to send plagues and ruin cities and end lives. Do you really think that you won’t have to watch some poor idiot fried by lightning for questioning you? Or a kid who makes fun of you being torn apart by dogs?”

_Or one of the very angels who’s meant to tend to you weeping brokenhearted over the glorious destruction your Father leaves in your wake?_

*

Yeshua does look upon him at this, and his eyes are filled with compassion, thoughtful and deep and human.

Human—but also a bit other. Someone who speaks to demons calmly, who doesn’t fear their wrath nor shrink before all these dreadful foretellings. He is calm and sad, a well of gentleness. Aziraphale’s bitter words are pebbles thrown into a vast pond, which encompasses them as silently and easily as water. “I did know,” he answers. “All those things. And I will learn them again, and teach of them, and I too will know suffering. Very great suffering.” He closes his eyes very briefly, his jaw tightening a little.

Then he relaxes, the tension flowing from him, and opens his eyes. “But so the Lord wills and I accept His command, for through it will come a great gift made to all the world. Therefore I will bear the weight of sins and suffering, and so through me there might be healing and peace.”

His determination is as absolute as his compassion. There is no crack in it. There is fear, and grief, but even they are turned towards his purpose.

*

“Peace like this place, you mean?”

Aziraphale can’t help it; the rage that coils around his heart stirs and swells, lashing out like a serpent with fangs bared.

“You could go anywhere in the world. Anywhere you want. Start a farm, start a family, raise ducks, _anything_. You could live someplace where people understand how good you are and love you as a friend. You could make any part of the world better, just by being a human being in it. And instead you’ve decided to suffer for a God whose idea of love is punishment and murder? To throw away everything you could possibly be, any life you could choose, until you break some rule She’s never even told you about and it’s your turn on the rack? I guarantee it’ll happen, it always does. Humans are kind. God is not.”

*

Yeshua stands tall and listens.

“You are right in that.” His voice is quiet. “I could turn aside; I too have a choice. I could turn my back on this path and instead live as others do. And it would be a good life.” 

There is a long moment of silence--then he shakes his head. “But I will give it for this purpose: to make a world better than this one. All I have or might have had, I will give for that.”

He smiles a little, and adds, “Next time you see him, ask your friend why he wept as he did. It may help you understand.”

*

His first and strongest impulse rises like bile through his body, bringing with it an agony like fire and broken glass in every fiber of him: _You know nothing, nothing, how dare you?_ And it almost bursts from him, almost surges up and into the open, dragging all his pain with it—

But the ground underneath them shivers, slightly, as Hell’s anger begins to rise too, and Aziraphale’s throat seals itself shut for a moment.

(With his paperwork lost in the chaos he’d lied freely in his report. He’d told his superiors that he’d run into an angel, crying over the lost souls of the destroyed cities, and taunted him until he’d left for Heaven. But there is a fragment of him that is still desperately afraid of what he might lose if the whole truth emerged, and even more afraid of what would happen to Crowley.)

The dead cities vanish, bleak desert once more stretching as far as the eye can see, and when he speaks his voice is harsh and broken, an ugly graceless thing.

“The Lord will cast you off, as She’s cast off millions of human souls before you who wanted to make a world better than the one they lived in. She will watch you suffer, She will make you witness terrible things She calls justice, and She will not care. You will weep, and She will not comfort you. You will carry a burden, and She will not lighten it. That’s how She works. And I promise you, none of Her children are immune. Not even you. Especially not you. This isn’t a curse, it’s _what is going to happen to you_ , if you continue down this road! She won’t be kind to you because _She’s never kind to anyone!_ ”

As soon as the outburst has run its course he knows he’s already failed. Embarrassment and anger have choked him into silence; he feels like a predatory beast backed into a corner, facing down a man only to realize that the sword in his hand is afire and that its aim is true.

*

The man listens unflinching, then bows his head as though a great weight is laid on it.

“Then it is incumbent upon me to teach kindness, and to bring forth a better justice than that which has been known. May the Lord guide my steps and strengthen my purpose.”

He raises his head and opens his eyes. “I admit I was expecting some more crass temptation; it would have been easier to bear. I should have known not to underestimate you.” He sighs and rubs his forehead, looking more ordinary than he yet has. And tired. Already tired, with the beginning of understanding. “I thank you, Serpent, for these harsh truths spoken in a desperate hour. I will not forget the lesson.”

*

Those mild brown eyes stir up something dangerously close to despair in Aziraphale’s heart. _You can’t teach God kindness, it’s too late, She won’t listen to you_ , he wants to say. He wants to beg Yeshua to reconsider, to do anything other than throw his life away for a Father who’s impossible to please; he could almost shed tears in his desperation. The future will not be kind to this young man, and yet he believes from the depths of his soul in some fundamental goodness holding the universe together.

Despite how weary he looks, he carries a spark of hope that’s devastatingly like one Aziraphale has already learned to recognize. And this time there’s no one to save, no one to sneak away from God’s wrath, nothing he can do. Nothing at all.

Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out, no words rise.

Then the ground opens up underneath him, and Hell drags him back down into its sulfurous embrace, its roar of fury splitting the air like thunder for an instant before the desert is simply desert again.

Already angels are descending to minister to the Son of God, to bring him a feast and sing his praises. _The Serpent is vanquished, Allelujah, Amen._ Aziraphale doesn’t hear them this time.

*

Yeshua starts as the ground opens up beneath the demon, and even moves forward with hand outstretched before letting it fall. Some things are beyond his reach. But when angels descend, calling _Allelujah!_ and _Hosannah!_ , even as they give him clean robes and bathe his skin and give him water to drink, his eyes still drift to that patch of desert.

*

Only a scant few years later, Yeshua hangs on a cross.

The story is known. How he began his ministry, how he walked the land and gathered disciples, the stories he told, the lessons he taught, the miracles he performed. How he came, at last, again and finally, to Jerusalem.

Jerusalem, which lies behind the crowd that has gathered, some to jeer, some to weep.

Among them stands an angel.

This time she has no tears, though her eyes are grave. Her hair is braided away from her face, her head covered, she wears white and black. Her eyes are fixed on the cross and its dreadful burden.

Crowley has been with Yeshua and his followers for some while now, watching and listening and keeping a low profile. That he knew her for what she is was evident at once; she expected nothing else. That she was not strictly speaking supposed to be there, he probably suspected. Nor was she there to help (though perhaps she did, once or twice, or three times. In small ways. Hardly needed, Yeshua has always had a firm grasp on his own miracles and a keen sense for when to use or not use them). She was there, as has so often been the case, because she was curious.

She is required to be here now. But she would have come even if she weren't, she would have chosen to bear witness to this. She didn't flinch as the nails were rammed in between the bones of the forearm, nor as she hears the whisper, _Father, forgive them; they know not what they do_.

Crowley watches, silent as a pillar of salt on a desert plain.

*

It’s been a rough few years.

Aziraphale’s failure to tempt the Son of God is a black mark on his otherwise spotless record, and one that earned him a hundred and forty lashes, stripes of unholy fire across his back deep enough to leave a scar as if he’s been clawed by some huge animal. The pain fades eventually; the memory of that gentle, hopeful compassion does not, and it hurts more than anything Hell could have done to him. His heart hardens further against God, not because of his own suffering but because of how much She makes the earnestly good souls in Her care suffer.

Hell, at least, is honest about their goals. Their lies, somehow, have never been as great as the lie Heaven’s been perpetuating, that their God is loving and just and kind.

(It’s why in his heart he thanks the stars Crowley fashioned, and no other force in the universe, that his superiors don’t have the imagination to question him about his weeping friend. That alone makes the punishment bearable, allows him to tune out the incessant cackling and smug remarks his coworkers direct his way.)

But Yeshua keeps causing trouble, teaching love and mercy, and within a year everyone goes back to ignoring Aziraphale. He files his reports in spiteful silence; he doesn’t play his flute for temptation or for his own pleasure. No unusually friendly white cats stalk the streets of Jerusalem, or at least not any supernatural ones.

When the news of the crucifixion comes, there’s a certain amount of celebrating in Hell. Their adversary’s had such a short amount of time to conduct his ministry that surely his teachings will be lost in the near future, dying out with his disciples, his miracles quickly forgotten. Which seems, to Aziraphale, as much of a waste as the rest of the whole sorry business.

He isn’t sure what compels him to go and witness for himself.

Crucifixion is a terrible death. It’s part strangulation, part slow bleeding torture. It’s a form of execution so awful even Hell couldn’t have thought it up. And Yeshua ben Yosef, holy man and scholar, the Beloved Son of God, bears it with only whispered agony, with tears but also with a firm resolve.

Again Aziraphale feels the bitter pain of helplessness: there’s nothing he can do to thwart this, even a little. He can’t put himself between the Lord and the human who deserves a second chance, not this time.

But he finds that there is something he does want to do, for the first time in years. 

Somewhere at the edge of the crowd, a flute begins to play. The melody tangles in the breeze to drift up to the condemned man, singing of small, humble pleasures. It whispers of gold slanting sunlight across green trees, of the soft hush of waves under a clear sky, of stars beyond number shining calmly on the sleeping earth. Simple, gentle comforts that any human soul might know during the course of a life well lived and warmed with love. Almost like a lullaby.

*

Not everyone hears the sweet song on the air. Most don’t, lost in their own misery or horror, or deafened by pride and righteousness. But a few do. Some of those grieving hear it and find it comforting.

Only one person sees Crowley’s reaction. She’s been statue-still for hours, watching the best and most holy man currently on earth dying by inches, but when she hears the quiet notes of the flute… it’s as though she breathes for the first time, lit from within, her eyes widening for all that she doesn’t look away. And on his cross, Yeshua ben Yosef, in pain beyond bearing, bleeding and unable to breathe, wears the smallest smile for the smallest moment. Perhaps it’s at the angel’s obvious joy of realization even in this pained hour, the way it transforms her. Or perhaps it’s for himself, for the memory of another time when those comforts were offered to him and he refused them.

Whatever the reason, now he hears all the beauty of the world condensed into light, dancing notes, and he smiles, whispers a few words of prayer to his Father, and dies.

Crowley bows her head. A few minutes later a great wailing arises. Some crowd forward, trying to reach their Messiah; among them is his mother, Maryam.

Crowley does have work to do, a fair bit of it. But first she steps back away from the crowd and looks for the source of the flutesong, her eyes hopeful.

*

The song stops not long after Yeshua’s life does; a faint whiff of brimstone drifts through the warm air, and there might be a flash of brilliant white robe at the edge of the crowd.

There’s a weary set to his shoulders, visible even at a distance. He watches the woman who once stroked tentatively between the ears of a white cat, who once called him _handsome fellow_ and who smiled in relief watching that cat purr her baby back to sleep, stumbling forward in deep grief, hands reaching out for her son. He watches simple men, lives transformed by a doctrine of love, lean on one another in quiet sorrow. He hears the sounds of human mourning, voices broken and distorted by tears, and he can’t help thinking, _What a terrible waste, what a tragedy._

Already Aziraphale knows he’s going to get absolutely hammered, as soon as possible. Within minutes of getting back to his inn, preferably.

But even as he turns to go, something catches his eye: a slender, still figure, only revealed now that the crowd around it has moved away. Black and white robes on a narrow frame, so familiar he almost stops breathing for a moment.

Surely not here, not for this cruel death, not now.

For the first time in his long life he finds himself hoping he’s wrong, not daring to stretch his otherworldly senses out, his heart poised on some delicate wire between hope and dread.

*

Of course now. Of course here. Where else would an angel of the Lord be, but bearing witness to this sacrifice? Particularly this angel. But it isn’t Sodom and Gomorrah again. There’s no devastation in Crowley this time. Grief, yes, and pain, but it’s overwritten by calmness. She was prepared for today’s events, and she knows something no one else here knows.

So she can smile, and if it’s a small smile there’s still deep affection in it, with no attempt made to hide or hold it back. She walks directly towards Aziraphale, her steps unfaltering, and reaches for the hand not holding a flute once she’s near enough, taking it in both of hers. “I heard you,” she says quietly, glancing down at the flute. “I’m glad you’re here.”

There’s a flash of concern in her eyes and voice, because he looks… weighed down, and exhausted, and deeply pained. She squeezes his fingers. “Are you all right?”

*

He knows, as Crowley approaches, that he should turn and go. That he shouldn’t linger, that by now she probably knows something about how the Serpent tried to tempt the Son of God, that the grace of her presence will probably burn him. But he can’t move, can’t do anything but stare, a sense memory slowly waking in him: a hope he’d all but forgotten, in the last few years.

Then she takes his hand, and breath feels new in his lungs, and some fog of despair that’s been hanging around him for several years at last begins to dissolve.

Aziraphale still feels terrible. But for the first time since his failure in the desert, hope is a real thing to him, and joy a possibility.

“I’ve been better,” he admits, but an equally small smile is starting to bloom on his face and behind his eyes. “It’s very good to see you, Crowley.”

*

It doesn’t occur to Crowley that holding Aziraphale’s hand might be problematic. Not in terms of Heaven and Hell—from what she’s seen they don’t watch that closely, even during moments like this when the earth is changing. Too busy with paperwork and tallying souls on charts. They’re watching the numbers, not the world. She’s taken his hand twice before in thanks, and it feels as natural for Crowley to reach for him now as it did when the demon was covered in white fur with a plumed tail. When his mouth curves and he says it’s good to see her, Crowley lights up. If only a little, if it’s still overshadowed by the events of the day, it’s still there.

Someone in the crowd wails, and Crowley winces at the sound, then grimaces. “Look, I have things I have to do for the next several hours, but I want to talk to you. Are you staying somewhere in the area? Can I find you later?”

*

The thing is—the thing is, for a while Aziraphale has been so preoccupied with the thought of the terrible moments the Lord has made his friend witness that he’d all but forgotten the effect her joy had on him. He’s been a desert unto himself, alone with his bitterness, and even this subdued version of her smile is a relief like the sudden cool hiss of rain.

With the exception of the times he’s been a cat, this is the longest she’s touched him; he already knows there will be a strange sense of absence when she eventually pulls back.

“There’s an inn run by a Roman couple, in the southeastern end of the upper city—by the theatre, with a private garden. White stone front, and two pomegranates on the sign. I’ll be there till at least tomorrow morning.”

*

Crowley nods. “Think I know the place. I’ll find you there. Not sure when, definitely after sunset. That all right?”

(There’s another wail, and sounds of anger; later Crowley will find that a Roman guard, intent on making certain Yeshua is dead before anyone is permitted to take his body down from the cross, has pierced his side with a spear.)

*

“Should be. Have them show you through to the garden, I’ll wait for you there—”

The sounds of dismay from the crowd grow in pitch, and Aziraphale’s gaze flicks past her briefly.

“Go,” he says, without bitterness or sorrow. “I’ll see you later.”

He squeezes her hand once more, then finally draws back, giving her one last searching look before he turns and is gone.

*

His expression confuses her a little, but there’s no time to think about it, not with the upset growing behind her. Crowley nods and squeezes his fingers in return before they let go and she turns, returning to her work.

  


* * *

  


1. While no one has any idea what guns are yet, there’s a general agreement that they’re extremely important to Hell and its general mission statement concerning widespread misery and destruction, and therefore the big ones must be _really_ impressive.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Omens makes a point of staying vague about whether or not Jesus was the son of God or not; we decided to run with it because there were so many interesting possibilities if he were. I could go into a long rambly digression about the authors' various religious beliefs, but suffice to say we're not attempting to convince or convert anyone to anything. We just had ideas we want to play with. 
> 
> But by any account Yeshua liked stories. Maybe he would've been bemused by this one. --Ashfae
> 
>  **Ashfae** can be found at [tumblr](https://ashfae.tumblr.com/), Goose in PMs to **mostlyjustgoose** here in A03, or both of us can be found in comments if you leave us one. It would brighten our days immensely to know what you think and we welcome concrit. =)


	10. The Agony in the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Crucifixion, an angel and a demon meet to discuss the state of the world and each other, assisted by pastry.

After a quick detour through the market, Aziraphale tells the innkeeper’s wife that he’s expecting a friend to come by after sunset, an explanation that’s accompanied by the gleam of gold and silver coins as they slide from his hand into hers; the woman is, to her credit, neither scandalized nor struck by sudden avarice. She merely thanks him and lets him know she’ll inform Flavia, the girl who works nights checking in late arrivals.

When the sun has dipped behind the horizon and the sky turns from rose to lavender to a soft and dreamy blue, he sits in the garden, with a jug of wine and a small basket of pastries at his elbow. The owners clearly take pride in this place, from the prettily laid out flower beds to the olive tree that shades the herb garden to the little fountain whose walls and bottom are patterned with a mosaic of flowering vines. And it’s quiet here, somehow, despite the nearness of the theatre.

*

The day started long, and while the worst is over it stays difficult. Maryam, wise and blessed Maryam, incomparable among women, is near inconsolable. Many of the other women are little better. Some of the disciples are grave, others desperate. Simon is still wracked with guilt at his denial of the previous day, foretold though it was, and how he will never be able to apologize for it. Yehudah Iscariot is gone, and will not be seen again.

A long day.

Yosef of Arimathea asks and is granted permission to tend to the body, and quickly, before the sun sets. There is no time for washing or anointing, not properly—though the last, someone realizes, was already done a few days ago. Yeshua himself said it at the time, when one of the quieter women of the group had poured precious perfume on his head. She was condemned for her wastefulness at the time; now she is remembered and thanked, since her gesture saves their teacher and Messiah from an unclean burial.

Crowley, who had known exactly what she was doing at the time and had no difficulty summoning holy oil in abundance, only looks sad at these words of relief and weary gratitude. Yeshua had looked at her while defending her, beads of oil running down his hair and glimmering in the lamplight. She had seen the knowledge of his own death in his eyes as he spoke to thank her, and also his fear.

Later they spoke together quietly in Gethsemane for a time, as they had on other occasions. There was little Crowley could do to help, but she knew the value of a kind, understanding presence.

Yosef of Arimathea gives Yeshua’s body a new shroud and the tomb prepared for his own eventual death. He is buried properly, before sunset. The Sabbath begins, and many gather still to grieve outside the great rock that guards his resting place.

Crowley walks through the city as night falls.

By the time he arrives at the inn in question he’s changed his form and his clothes. It’s easier; a woman walking alone through the city at night draws too much unwanted attention. Though the city is unusually quiet, the calm after the storm, so likely he would have been unnoticed either way.

At any rate when Crowley arrives he’s treated as one expected and shown into the back garden. His tension visibly lessens as he sees Aziraphale waiting, and with food and drink no less. He smiles as he walks forward. “Thought it was me who owed you a meal, but I’m not going to argue,” he says by way of greeting. “Only for the love of everything, _please_ tell me there’s alcohol in that jug.”

*

The hushed sound of a footstep lifts Aziraphale's heart, and then—that voice, that _smile_. He turns towards it with a greater degree of joy than he’s known since that night in Bethlehem. Even if he knows it’ll take him a while to feel the same casual happiness again, this is a start, and it’s so much better than he’s felt in years.

He pats the space on the bench beside him, a smile finally easing across his own face.

“There is, and there will be for the rest of the evening,” he says. Strangely, there’s a kind of relief in the back of his throat, the way there is when he adjusts to the clearer air of the earth after he’s spent any time in Hell. Breathing is easier; speaking doesn’t hurt. “I made it bigger on the inside.”

Overhead, the sky is just becoming dark enough for the first few stars to wink into view. It’s a beautiful night.

*

“Thank Heaven for that.” Crowley groans with relief as he takes a seat, then frowns, realizing how utterly inappropriate (and inaccurate) his statement was. “Sorry. Thank… well, not thank Hell for that, I suppose. Thank you for that. Thank you _very_ much, brilliant work, please may I have some? Or a lot. Quite a lot.”

Aziraphale looks a little better than he did earlier, at least. Less tense, and with a smile. It’s not his comfortable, enjoying things smile, but it’s at least something. “Thanks,” Crowley says again, looking at the demon and feeling something in his shoulders or somewhere begin to unknot and relax for the first time since… a long while. “For meeting with me. It’s been a hard week.”

*

Aziraphale is helpless against the warmth that rushes up through his chest when Crowley corrects himself—it’s a kindness no one else would think of, and even if it’s unnecessary it’s... charming. His smile grows, even as he passes over the jug.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, honestly. Already he can see some tension in the angel’s shoulders beginning to unwind, softening like the deep blue shadows all around them. It’s an encouraging sight, after a day of witnessing terrible things.

What he wants to say and doesn’t is, _I missed you, I wish we’d run into each other before this, I was starting to think I’d forgotten what it was like to be around someone who gives a blessing about anything important._

*

You can only thank each other so many times before it becomes ridiculous, so Crowley shrugs a little, smiling at Aziraphale’s smile (they do seem to set each other off). He takes the wine jug and drinks deep, wiping his mouth afterwards, then drinks again. He holds up the jug, eyeing it. “Saw him turn water into wine once, you know. Good quality stuff, too.”

He puts the jug down on the table, sighs. “He heard you, at the end. Saw him smile. It helped. Helped both of us, I mean.” His gaze flickers back to Aziraphale, and his mouth quirks a little. “So thanks for that, too. Why were you doing it? I was wondering. Never heard you play anything before. Was beautiful.”

(He does realize he’s said ‘thank you’ yet again. It’s all right. Crowley doesn’t mind being ridiculous.)

*

Aziraphale is reaching for the jug when Crowley asks, and his hand stills for a second. Not that it stops him—he drags the jug closer to himself and takes a long, long pull from it, several swallows with his eyes shut. When he eventually puts it down again, he’s quiet a moment longer before he finally dredges up the right words.

“God wanted him to die suffering,” he says, as quietly as if he’s embarrassed by it. ”I didn’t, and I knew you wouldn’t have either. But you would have got in trouble for thwarting Her. So I did it instead.”

He’s too weary to do anything but tell the truth, and even so it burns slightly—he’s well aware that he’s giving an angel, technically his enemy, a glimpse of one of his greatest weaknesses. Certainly it’s been an easy one to disguise by saying he simply wants to thwart the will of Heaven, and on some level that is what he wants, but it’s never been as important as a feeling no demon should ever experience: empathy.

*

Crowley grimaces, opens his mouth as though to contest this logic, frowns, grimaces again, and reaches for the wine jug again. “It’s true,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want him to die suffering.”

He drinks almost as deeply as Aziraphale just did and looks up at the stars. “I asked him if he was certain, _really_ certain, you know? Several times, right up until the end. Definitely wasn’t supposed to do that, and it probably only made things harder for him. He was determined to go through with it, though.” He glances over at Aziraphale. “You liked him, then? He told me you’d met once, in the desert.”

No judgement or even hint of judgement, no disapproval, even though Crowley must know that their meeting was an assignment and not one intended to do Yeshua any kindnesses. Not at first, at least. Crowley suspects Aziraphale’s motivations might not have been quite the same as Hell’s intentions. They rarely are, from what he’s seen. That Aziraphale is capable of empathy, against all demonic expectations, is no surprise at all to Crowley. Not by this point.

*

It’s a little easier, as the alcohol starts to sink in and warm his blood, to say certain things that he’s had to keep silent for the past few years. There’s something of cleaning out a wound in this conversation, almost, which he supposes he should have expected. After all, Crowley is the only angel he’s ever met who’s anything like the humans’ idea of one, bright and joyful and healing.

“I thought he was a very bright young man.” Aziraphale leans back a little, automatically picking out the patterns of light Crowley explained to him thirty years ago: the Seven Sisters, Rigel, the Dog Star. “I could tell he wanted to do a lot of good, for as many people as possible. If I’m honest, I don’t think a lot of other people would have turned down that temptation, but he did. It was actually pretty impressive.”

*

If Crowley heard the description of himself as being bright and joyful and healing, he’d fall over laughing for a week. But this is a healing conversation. So many of their meetings have been, as well as companionable in a way no other company is.

Crowley wishes, not for the first time, that they happened more often.

The stars are as bright above them as they were the night Yeshua was born. He remembers a baby crying, being soothed by a white cat, Maryam’s relieved, exhausted smile.

(Maryam, who even now as others mourn the Son of God, a teacher and scholar and wise man, is mourning a son. Maryam, who more than anyone in this business has done nothing at all to deserve such pain. Women lose children every day, for reasons less important than this, for no reason at all--but somehow that thought is worse instead of better.)

“Yeah,” he says instead, looking back down at the table and not at the sky where a giant star isn’t pointing the way to a stable. “He did. And he was. What’d you offer him? He never said, and I didn’t want to ask.”

*

Aziraphale takes the jug back, has another deep drink. He’s glad there’s only a little light, from a pair of torches mounted by the entrance to the garden and from the stars and moon; it makes him feel as if there is at least a thin veil he can pull over the shame he feels.

“I pointed out he could turn the stones of the desert into enough food for everyone in Jerusalem. Show everyone beyond any doubt what he was and what he wanted to say.” Another mouthful of wine, to wash the sudden ashen taste out of his mouth. “And then I showed him where Sodom and Gomorrah used to be, and told him he’d have to witness that version of God’s love too, and asked him if he really wouldn’t rather have an ordinary life.”

There’s a strange feeling tightening his throat, making his scar throb. Something like exhaustion is making his whole body heavier, as if this is his first opportunity to rest in a while—and in a way it is.

*

Crowley winces as soon as the lost cities are mentioned. He can still see Edith’s last expression, her wide, tear-stained eyes. “Ah,” he says, and there’s a rare note of bitterness there. “That would do it.” He folds his arms on the table and rests his chin on them. “Almost wish you’d succeeded.”

*

“So do I. Poor big-hearted bastard.”

Not because Aziraphale had been punished for his failure, but because he’d known it would end this badly, with this much pain and grieving. He’d hoped Crowley would be spared seeing it firsthand; he should have known the Almighty wouldn’t be that kind.

“What a waste,” he says, and with another wash of shame he realizes his voice is softening, like a rotten branch about to break.

*

“Not a waste.” Crowley sighs again and turns his head, looking at the demon. “But that doesn’t really make it easier.” He reaches out, stretches a long arm so he can rest a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m not surprised he got to you. He was good at it, getting to people.”

*

Crowley’s hand is warm and solid; reassurance flows from his touch, not through any angelic power but from simple understanding.

_I know. I’m sorry. She broke my heart, too._

It’s a comfort he knows he does not deserve, and something long since hardened in his heart cracks, the thinnest fracture.

“He was so polite to me. Could’ve shouted, or tried to drown me out with praying. Some people do that, you know. Doesn’t work.” His smile is very small and rather wobbly, and it vanishes almost instantly. “Said he’d try to ‘bring forth a better justice’. I think he really believed he could do it.”

*

A strange look crosses Crowley’s face at that, and he sits up again. He’s silent for a moment, then quotes softly. “‘Destroy this temple, and I will raise it again in three days...’”

This time when he looks at Aziraphale it’s sharper, more appraising. “Look, do you have anywhere you need to be for a while? Because things here… aren’t quite done yet. I don’t think. I’m not entirely sure. But if you can stay for a few days…” He frowns, then shrugs. “Might see something worth seeing.”

There’s an odd earnestness in his tone, for all that he’s trying to look and sound nonchalant. He knows something, or thinks he knows something, for all he can’t say it.

*

Aziraphale glances over at the angel with a kind of sluggish surprise at the change in tone.

“I might have to check in at the head office tomorrow morning,” he says. “But I can come back. Got the room booked all week.”

A thought occurs to him that cuts through his unhappy mood like a single star piercing a heavy cloud cover: maybe they can have lunch. Or dinner. Or both, if Crowley has time. Maybe they can sit in this garden again, exchanging stories. It provides him with the very slightest lift, a whisper of comfort.

*

Crowley’s smile blooms, as it sometimes does. “Good. I’ve got a few things I should do over the next few days. Not officially, as such, just… a lot of lost followers grieving in the city. And then in two days there’s something important, which I think you’ll want to be here to witness.” His smile turns a notch more shy. “That, and... what I said earlier. I’m just glad you’re here.”

*

Aziraphale is just sober enough to know Crowley is hiding something, holding back some surprise, and just drunk enough to admit to himself that he’s actually rather touched by the thought that his friend wants to surprise him with something. The angel is treating him as any human would treat a friend, without thought for the fundamental divide that exists between them.

He pulls in a breath, sits up a little as if to reach for the jug again. Instead his hand covers Crowley’s where it rests on the table between them.

_I wish it could be like Babel or Bethlehem all the time, for you. For us. I know it’s more than I deserve, but Hell help me, sometimes I believe you might have grace enough for both of us._

“It’s _really_ good to see you,” he manages, slightly choked.

*

Crowley frowns a little, obviously concerned by the timbre of Aziraphale’s voice, the intensity of the words. “Something’s happened to you, these past years.” His voice is quiet, and he turns his hand over underneath Aziraphale’s. He folds their fingers together, squeezes gently. “What is it? Can I help?”

*

This time his is just a little wider, quirking unsteadily to one side.

“You already are,” he says, quietly. “It’s just... the assignment, the way it ended up turning out, it brought up a lot of—old things.”

(A hand on the back of his neck; the sound of his own voice pleading for mercy. _No one is cast off by the Lord forever._ A long, screaming Fall, his gift and purpose torn endlessly out of him. Countless days of awful solitude. A black-winged Angel of the Lord on his knees, face buried in his hands to hide his tears.)

*

Crowley is silent for a moment, considering that unsteady smile, and his brow stays furrowed.

Well. It’s something humans do, right? Something he’s done before, even. With humans. And he’s held Aziraphale in his arms before as a cat. Not for comfort, but still, it’s happened. It’s not so different.

Slowly, giving Aziraphale every opportunity to move away if he wants, Crowley reaches out an arm and wraps it around the demon, pulling him into an embrace. Their hands stay joined, trapped between them.

*

Crowley is careful, the kind of calm but respectful care one might take with a frightened animal or a friend whose grief is beyond measuring, and as his heavy head comes to rest on the angel’s thin shoulder Aziraphale feels something inside himself give way, collapsing under its own weight.

He’s not even aware that he lets go of Crowley’s hand to cling to the back of his tunic, or that his own shoulders are shaking.

Meeting Yeshua, coming face to face with his calm faith in a God who loved Her children with the kind of forgiving love only humans are capable of, had stoked up a very, very old fire in him, an agony that’s plagued his heart at different times but has been there almost since the beginning. _It’s all just so bloody unfair, all of it, and I can put myself between the terrible things the Lord wants and the people who don’t deserve them, but it’s never enough, it never changes Her, it never changes me._

For the first time in four thousand years, Aziraphale begins to cry.

*

Oh.

As soon as his hand is released Crowley wraps his other arm around Aziraphale too, no longer careful but holding on tight as the demon crumples against him. Aziraphale’s whole body trembles, and then there’s the muffled sound of a sob buried against Crowley’s shoulder.

_Oh._

Crowley gathers him in close, absolutely heedless of whether or not it’s unwise or dangerous or any other consideration. Someone needs him. Not just anyone, but _Aziraphale_ , who’s done more than anyone else to treat him as a friend, to help, who loves humans as Crowley does. If every other angel in Heaven were watching in disapproval Crowley would still do it, even if he Fell for it. It wouldn’t be the first time an angel Fell for supposedly misplaced compassion. As though compassion can possibly be misplaced.

(There’s a brief moment of observation as Crowley bends his head, where he notices the mark just under Aziraphale’s ear; he’s spotted it before but never quite seen clearly what is. It looks like a small lyre, broken in half. Odd. That knowledge combines with the image of Aziraphale’s hands holding a flute, and sets itself aside to be thought about later. This isn’t the time for wondering.)

Crowley doesn’t Fall. He is shaking himself, pained by his friend’s pain, grieved by his grief. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, for… for all the things that hurt you. I’d fix them if I knew how, I’d make them right.” His arms tighten around the demon. There are tears in his eyes now too, a smear of wet against Aziraphale’s cheek. “You deserve better than this.”

*

His own tears are scalding, glimmering with sparks that burn themselves out as they slide down his cheeks and patter into the fabric of Crowley’s robe. They flow like magma, up from some deep and ancient wound at his core, wracking his body with quiet sobs.

Still the angel holds him, as if he can somehow shield Aziraphale from the gaze of Above and Below alike, and does not let go. When Crowley speaks, soft and broken and deeply sincere, a spasm of something both tender and deeply painful wrings his heart. His arms tighten, trembling.

_You’re so kind. You see humans for what they are and what they could be, and yet so many times when I’ve run into you you’ve had these awful burdens to bear. And I can try to make it better, I can tempt and thwart and miracle to try and keep your extraordinary joy from burning out, but in my heart I know the Almighty is going to keep putting you in these awful positions._

_You deserve better._

_And—_

His heart convulses.

_And I do, too._

He was never wrong, never anything other than himself—that’s why he’s never been able to repent, why he never will. What happened to him wasn’t fair, and he knows it in every secret part of his soul.

And it doesn’t matter.

Because now he can never go back to what he was, to the illusion that Heaven was his family and that their Creator was loving and just. To the idea that if he simply did what he was made to do, nothing could go wrong. Aziraphale has watched the things Heaven’s permitted, things meant to please the Almighty, things they’ve encouraged humans to do. Things they’ve also made an angel watch.

The unfairness of it, and the scope of his own helplessness, has weighed on him, trapped under his skin as if it’s in his scars.

And Crowley holds him, grieves with him, believes things should be better like he can actually make them better with the force of his faith. Tells him in so many words that they should be better.

Aziraphale clings to him, shaking, unable to speak.

*

Crowley gives all the support his thin frame can offer, which given his angelic nature is more than would seem available. He’s stronger than he looks, in every sense. And a good thing too, because Aziraphale sounds and feels shattered, and it wrenches at Crowley as much as any other injustice he’s ever witnessed. Possibly more.

He keeps murmuring apologies, not really paying attention to what he says. It hardly matters, it all means the same thing: _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it shouldn’t be like this and I’m sorry it is and I’m listening, I’m here. You’re not alone. You’re not alone. You’re not alone._

One hand ends up cradling the back of Aziraphale’s head, soft curls between his fingers. The other strokes softly along the demon’s spine. His tears are slower and dry sooner, but he keeps his head lowered by Aziraphale’s, lets Aziraphale keep his own face buried in the nook between neck and shoulder, as though in so doing he can hide and protect him somehow. From Heaven’s judgement, Hell’s wrath, his own grief… all those things. Anything.

_I’m sorry. I’m here. You’re not alone._

*

(There are little ridges under the fabric of his clothes, all up and down Aziraphale’s back. Thin, long stripes of what feels like raised skin bump against Crowley’s palms. And when Crowley strokes over them, Aziraphale shudders and relaxes further, as if some painkiller has finally begun to do its work in his body and blood.)

Crowley keeps murmuring to him, soft and reassuring words, and Aziraphale hangs on to him against the tide of his own sorrows. Humans have held him before, but that’s always been a means to an end, either a stepping stone to a few hours of pleasure or a bookend when those hours are done. No one has offered him comfort for its own sake. No one has gathered him up like they could keep his past and the deep wound in his heart from finding him.

_It’s not fair that we live in a world ruled by a force that seems to relish suffering and punish joy. It’s not fair that the only time I ever feel like I might be at home is when you’re around, and that Heaven could take everything from you if they found out. It’s not fair that the human who’s reminded me the most of you in four thousand years just died horribly after days of divinely ordained torture and that Hell was already celebrating before it happened. And I can’t change it, none of it, none of it, I’ve been trying for millennia and still no miracle is big enough to correct it._

It feels like a long, long time before he can rasp out any of the words that choke him, that he’s carried in silence for millennia. And still they’re almost lost against Crowley’s shoulder, muffled and still distorted by sobs.

“S’just—too much. Everything. I shouldn’t want to fix it, but I do, and I just—I can’t, Crowley, I _can’t_...”

Another wave breaks over him, and he shakes, trying to hold in the shameful sounds that threaten to escape. Long and long ago, when he’d done what he’d thought would be the last of his weeping, he had been at it long enough that he’d learned to do it silently; now the skill has deserted him.

*

Crowley feels those ridges, and knows what they are. He’s seen more than one person bearing stripes on their back; he’s healed them or at least lessened the pain after more than one such whipping, or bound the wounds when he could do nothing else. And oh, it makes him _angry_ —angry as Crowley almost never is, a burning rage deep in his heart—to know that it was done to Aziraphale.

He doesn’t have to ask why those marks are there, or who dealt them. He can guess. If he ever finds the demon who held the whip, it might be the first time he’s tempted to try an actual honest-to-Her smiting.

But his hands don’t hesitate as they gently caress Aziraphale’s back. These are all thoughts for another time. They’ll keep. Hell isn’t going anywhere.

Crowley holds, and listens.

It’s difficult to make out words at first, muffled and agonized as they are. But he gradually begins to make sense of them, the more so as they repeat. Crowley blinks, listening closely to make sure he’s hearing correctly.

He wants to say it. He tries not to say it. For a few minutes he stays as he is, one hand buried in Aziraphale’s hair and the other stroking lightly at his back.

Then all at once he holds on hard, with sudden fervor. “You—” He moistens his lips and tries again. “You _idiot_.”

*

He’d pull back, if Crowley weren’t holding on to him so hard. But those slender arms are tight around him, keeping him where he is, despite the way his body stiffens in surprise.

For a few seconds he goes still, trembling hands motionless on Crowley’s back. His tears still flow, but he’s silent, listening, even if he has to fight the urge to bury his face in his friend’s shoulder and hide from his shame and distress.

*

“All this time.” Crowley sucks in a breath. “Is that what you’ve been doing, all this time? Wanting to fix things? _Alone?_ Of _course_ you can’t!”

He sounds flabbergasted because he is. Crowley finally lets go, but not much, just enough so he can take Aziraphale’s shoulders and look at his face. Their eyes are both red-rimmed.

“Listen to me.” It’s not just Crowley speaking now. It’s someone who’s spent four thousand years wandering around the world watching people and helping people and watching them help and curse each other. His voice is firm and absolute. “I don’t care that you’re a demon. I know you’ve probably done a lot of things I don’t know about, and I don’t care. I also know the good things you’ve done, and they _matter_. They’ve mattered more than you can know. Do you really think that doesn’t count for anything? Because it does. It’s been everything to me.”

He bends forward and leans his forehead against Aziraphale’s, closing his eyes now. One hand cups the demon’s face, his thumb lightly stroking the skin. “There’s a lot wrong with the world. You and I both know that, and honestly I think She does too. There’s a lot that needs fixing. But _no one_ could do it on their own. Not even Yeshua, though the Almighty knows he’s giving it his best shot.” He stops and takes another shuddering breath. “We could drain ourselves of miracles for a thousand years and still not make it all right, but that’s not the point. The point is just to make things _better_. And you do that. At least for me.”

*

At first he avoids Crowley’s gaze, his cat’s eyes lowered in shameful silence—but the angel keeps talking, firm and calm and so blessed _sure_ , cutting through the internal maelstrom of doubt and misery.

_I don’t care that you’re a demon._

(A demon who doesn’t belong in Hell, who loves sin and humanity and the pleasures of the world but has never forgotten he was once an angel. A demon who will gleefully watch humans tarnish their souls with interesting vices but who can’t bear the thought of graves small enough for children, whose stomach turns at the thought of having a partner who can’t say yes, who has never whispered anyone into committing a murder. A demon who’s never been a demon, not really, not in the ways that count.)

_It’s been everything to me._

A tiny streak of fire races down his cheek a moment before Crowley’s hand comes to settle there. His touch is soothing, like a hand on the frantically vibrating strings of an instrument, dulling the sound of constant pain inside him. It doesn’t stop the tears, which still run glittering between Crowley’s fingers, but the hurt lessens.

Still, though—

“It’s never enough.”

Never enough for Aziraphale, anyway, as nothing except Crowley’s company has ever been enough for his wounded soul since that day on the wall in Eden.

“She keeps sending you to watch these awful things. Making you watch the humans, while She—” He shudders, his own eyes closing. “You, of all people. It’s not fair.”

*

Crowley tilts his head a little, confused by this apparent change of topic. “But… I chose that. I choose that.” He caresses Aziraphale’s face with his thumb, feeling the sting from brimstone tears against his skin. “I could be reassigned if I wanted, you know. Probably. But I don’t want it. I’d rather be here. Who else would care about watching over the humans as much as we do? Some feathered twerp who only thinks of them as counters in a game of ten million man Morris?”

It’s a ridiculous comparison, and it makes him laugh for just a moment as he says it, as he rests their heads back together. Aziraphale’s hair is as soft as a cat’s fur. “This is where I want to be, even when it’s hard. Besides…” His voice lowers, turns a little more quiet. “Besides, this is where I get to see you. That’s worth all the rest.”

*

As it has been from the very beginning, Crowley’s laughter is a balm, an unexpected comfort. Even with his eyes shut Aziraphale leans towards it, basking in his goodness, in the warmth of being close to a joyful heart. He can’t help the smile that tugs gently at his mouth in response. And he has to admit Crowley’s right—no one else he’s met on either side gives a blessing about humanity, about their accomplishments and inventions and curiosity. Just the numbers and how to get them higher.

But Crowley, apparently alone among the Heavenly Host, sees people as people. He sees their curiosity and hope, their kindness and imagination. He sees the world as a place worth celebrating and repairing rather than righteously avoiding.

And he sees a demon as a friend. Not just a friend—a friend whose company is worth the bruising sorrows of the Lord’s plans.

This time Aziraphale has no fur to hide behind, no way of hiding what his face does as the revelation breaks over him: alone in the world, Crowley cares what happens to him. Cares if he lives, if he dies, if he suffers. Cares that he exists at all.

His shoulders slump; his head tilts into Crowley’s long warm fingers, like a cat grateful for affection. His lips brush gently at the base of Crowley’s palm, where he can feel his own tears wet them.

*

The leaning into his palm feels enough like the gesture of a cat turning its head to claim rightful tribute that Crowley doesn’t think of the intimacy of it at first, despite the caress of lips against bare, sensitive skin. It flows naturally from the moment. Later the memory of a warm mouth on his palm will tease at his thoughts, but right now he simply accepts it, just as he once accepted a furred arched spine curving against his fingers. Later, he’ll wonder.

“There’s a change coming,” he says instead. “I can’t tell you what it is, though it’s already started, I think. I don’t know what you’ll think of it or if it will make things easier, for you. Or if it’ll make things harder. Or both, most likely. Almost certainly both.” He sighs, shakes his head a little. “But something is changing, and I have to hope it’ll be for the better. Yeshua did, and he understood it all better than I do. And it’s something I find comforting, that things can change. All things, even the Almighty Herself.”

The arm wrapped around Aziraphale’s shoulders tightens, and Crowley laughs again, though it’s a little choked. “Oh Lord, why do you let me babble on like this? I must sound ridiculous.”

*

Hope seems to come so easily to Crowley. It radiates from him like the warmth of his body, curling around Aziraphale, brushing at his skin almost palpably.

He doesn’t know if he can ever believe that the Almighty could change—after all, She’ll never change what he’s become, or change the fact that when he still might have come back his brethren had already turned their backs on him. And so it’s not Her he can put the last shattered remnants of his faith in, but the angel who’s kept them from crumbling to dust.

Maybe, if Crowley says things are going to be better, they could be. Because the day the first rain ever fell on the earth, he lifted his face and laughed, the simplest and most glorious song in all the world, infusing a bleak world with new life. Because he weeps for human lives lost, and for a demon’s fathomless grief. Because he asks questions instead of blindly obeying. He’s the very best soul Aziraphale has ever met, a North Star whose light remains constant even in the most savage of storms. Even now.

Then he falters, and laughs at himself, and Aziraphale’s heart tightens gently.

“I don’t mind,” he whispers, and his voice is steadier now, though still somewhat watery. “I’ve never minded listening to you.”

*

Crowley snorts a little. “Yeah, well. You and the Almighty, then. Assuming She doesn’t mind. Glad to know you don’t, though.”

Aziraphale’s breath is teasing at Crowley’s palm, and he shivers, feels goosebumps rising on his back for some reason. He’s never felt that before. Not a place he’d have expected to be so reactive to anything, especially not something so light as a breath. How strange. “Your hair is soft, did you know? As soft as your fur was. S’nice.”

*

For a brief moment Aziraphale considers changing his form, if only so the embarrassing tears will stop. But it’s nice to be able to have his arms around Crowley. And it’s especially nice to tuck his face into the angel’s shoulder, to feel for a few moments that he’s somehow being shielded from everything that could harm him.

“Told you,” he murmurs, huffing out a little laugh. “I’m a hedonist. What’d you expect?”

Slowly the shaking in his hands is ebbing; the agony at the back of his throat is dying down.

*

That laugh eases unhappy tension from Crowley’s own shoulders. It’s small, but it’s something, it’s a start. If it’s a long way from the laughing, beaming demon who once met him on a picnic blanket and held out a fig, or the one who drank with him on a hillside while they talked about stars for hours, it’s still a start. Aziraphale deserves to laugh more often, to always be laughing.

_I’d talk at you forever, if it meant you’d laugh like that again._

The demon turns his head, hiding his face in the crook of Crowley’s shoulder once more. Crowley’s palm feels suddenly, oddly bereft, so he wraps that arm around Aziraphale again, splays his hand flat over the other’s spine.

“‘Course you are,” he murmurs in wry agreement. “A shameless one, always tempting people to enjoy things with you, whether it’s food or drink or the softness of your hair or whatever. Not generous at all.”

Did that come out a little sarcastic? Yes, yes it did, and affectionately amused as well.

*

Aziraphale’s ears heat a little at the compliment. It shouldn’t feel good, not to a demon, but it does. And for now he’s relaxing into the contact as the worst of his grief washes slowly away, contented to be held, to be close enough to a trusted soul that he can accept the comfort he craves.

“Not a bit.” He rubs his cheek against Crowley’s shoulder, just a little, catlike, as he settles into the embrace. “Demons aren’t generous. Certainly don’t have any fresh fruit pastry for you in that basket, and if I did, it would be to bribe you into keeping quiet.”

His tone is softer, the shadow of playfulness creeping in at last.

*

“Keeping quiet about what?” Crowley laughs a little, relishing the return of that playful tone. “Also, have you met me? Keeping quiet is really, really not my strong point, no matter how much pastry you bribe me with. Not even if it has nuts or honey. Or both.”

He holds the demon a little tighter for a moment, then turns his head and kisses Aziraphale’s forehead lightly before letting go. (He doesn’t even think about it, it’s an instinct that goes along with all the holding. He’s done the same to children before, or women he’s comforted while walking among them. The fact that Aziraphale is different and the smell of his hair and soft feel of his skin against Crowley’s lips will come back and distract him at intervals over the next years doesn’t occur to him.)

Crowley pulls back a little, enough to see Aziraphale’s face, though he keeps an arm around the demon’s shoulder. “Come on then, tempting fiend, let’s have these pastries. You’ll feel better for eating a few of them, I’m sure. And more of that wine.”

*

Though tonight the shock of finally draining poison from an old wound overwhelms the full effect of it, Aziraphale feels that kiss brushed against his forehead sink into his skin, rain sweeping over a patch of parched earth. Right now it merely adds to the warm and heavy feeling of comfort Crowley has wrapped around him.

He leans on the angel, exhausted as a human who’s fought their way free of an illness. For some time they pass the jug back and forth between them—and the basket too. The pastries he’s brought do indeed have honey and nuts, and a filling of finely chopped fruit; they pair well with the wine. Aziraphale finds a few more degrees of his smile returning when he watches Crowley bite into one, watches curiosity ripple through his expression.

For a little while, there’s just this quiet, this understanding that reverberates between them at some pitch they can feel but not hear. The night folds over them, softening every sound in the garden. It’s peaceful. It’s comforting. It is, Aziraphale muses, what sleep probably ought to feel like.

It doesn’t last.

A small stone statue of a woman with a pitcher, a few feet off from their bench and table, suddenly raises its head and turns towards them.

“ _AZIRAPHALE._ ”

He startles, panicked for a moment before he realizes whoever is calling him can’t see through the statue’s stone eyes. Still, he scrubs at his face with one hand, self-conscious.

“Yes—present and accounted for, what can I do for you?”

“ _EMERGENCY AT THE HEAD OFFICE. EVERYONE’S WANTED ON THE PREMISES AS SOON AS POSSIBLE._ ”

“Emergency—?” He glances over at Crowley, then back at the statue. “Right. Give me about half an hour, I’ll be there.”

“ _ACCEPTABLE. HAIL SATAN._ ”

“Naturally,” Aziraphale says wearily, and the statue becomes a statue again.

*

The demon looks… better, for some definition of better, but still shaken and drained, so Crowley keeps an arm around him for support as they share a meal. Only their second, or perhaps third if the wine at Bethlehem counted; it seems as though there should have been many more.

But there haven’t, as is made more evident during the bits of small talk that ensue. Harmless things, interesting tidbits, nothing so serious as all that’s preceded it. Crowley admits that he doesn’t eat very often unless he’s with company, but likes pastry and is particularly fond of honey. He licks off a few drops that dripped onto his fingers as he admits it, his expression a little sheepish but a lot pleased. He tells a few quiet stories, not of Yeshua but of things of people he’s noticed or wondered about. Easy distractions, designed to chase Aziraphale’s smile out of hiding.

They work, or something does, and Crowley feels lighter as Aziraphale gradually starts to look more like his usual self, able to exchange quips or just sit easily in the quiet. It’s a beautiful night, and for a while he lets the day’s events fade into the background. Not forgotten, just… set aside, for a time.

Of course it ends much too quickly. Crowley almost yelps when the statue moves, and his free arm jerks so wildly that the half-eaten pastry in it is flung across the garden. His grip around Aziraphale automatically tightens, protective, and tightens again more consciously as he realizes who’s speaking. Who’s speaking, What, a representative of Where… his skittery brain wanders through relative pronouns even as he bites his tongue to stay quiet. The last thing he wants is for Aziraphale to be in trouble because of him.

Crowley stays very, very still, until the short shouty message is delivered. Only then does he pull his arm back, his expression now very serious and faintly worried. “So… you’ll have to go, then.” He thinks of the raised welts on Aziraphale’s back and bites his lip. He can’t ask Aziraphale to disobey, obviously, but the idea of letting him go back to the place where he was injured doesn’t sit well with him. At all. “Wish I could come, but…” He grimaces. “I’m betting they’d notice, yeah? Even if I shrunk myself and hid in your pocket or something. But…”

He shakes his head and takes a deep breath, rests a hand on the table. “I’m babbling again. Sorry. If you can get back after… whatever’s happening, I’ll still be here. Yeah? Around and about, probably near the tomb somewhere. And if you can’t get back, then…” He bites his lip again, runs his other hand through his hair, where it immediately snags on a few tangles. “Get word to me somehow? If you can? Just so I know you’re, you’re okay.”

*

Humans are always volunteering to do the near-impossible for one another, in their stories and songs and in their actual lives. Hearing an angel so casually remark about accompanying him into Hell makes Aziraphale’s stomach twist—both because it’s more kindness than he’s ever been offered by anyone in Heaven, and because the thought of Crowley being discovered sends a stab of fear through him as cold as his Fall from grace.

But his offer to meet up later still stands, and Aziraphale finds himself further comforted by the idea of having something to look forward to. It’s not a frequent occurrence, after all.

And it prompts him to be far more reckless than he usually would.

“You said there’s something going on here in, what, two days? I’ll be back by then.”

Even if it’s only for a few hours, he’s sure he can slip out of whatever tedium the higher-ups (well, lower-downs) might have planned, and anyway emergencies rarely last very long.

*

Crowley still looks worried.

The thing is, he doesn’t know what’s happening. There's been nothing official, or at least nothing that’s reached him. He has a few guesses, but they’re based off things Yeshua said, and the man could be so incredibly _cryptic_...

He’s not sure if he should sit on Aziraphale to keep him from going, or hurry him along.

Crowley nods eventually. “...all right,” he says quietly. “Look for me near the tomb, then. And be careful. Hellish emergencies…” _...can’t be good_ , he means to finish, but by Heaven’s definition they probably are, or perhaps at least this one is? He doesn’t know. “Just be careful.”

*

“I will.”

The thing is, he actually will be careful—demons shouldn’t keep promises, but he’s made this one to himself as much as to Crowley. Besides, he’s long since made up his mind not to spend more time in Hell than absolutely necessary under any circumstances; thus far, with one of the highest temptation rates of any demon, he’s gotten away with it.

With a little sigh he stands, already feeling the absence of Crowley’s touch like a brand. It takes him a moment to sober up, to wipe away the evidence of his tears with a miracle, to stretch like a cat who’s been displaced from its favorite sunny patch.

“Can’t imagine what they want everyone on the premises for,” he mutters, adjusting his sleeves. “You’d think they’d have someone hang back. No imagination in upper management. Well. Lower management, I suppose.” He turns a little more fully to Crowley, a brief smile warming his eyes. “Presentable?”

*

Crowley feels a little bereft as soon as Aziraphale moves away, watches as he straightens himself up, removes any signs of distress. By the end of it he looks more as he did several decades ago, not several hours ago. Some of that dreadful, miserable tension is gone.

Which is good, of course, that was the whole idea. But Crowley can’t help but be a little wistful that their moment of intimacy is over already.

Still, he smiles. It helps that Aziraphale’s smile looks real, the most untroubled one he’s had today. “Handsome as ever,” Crowley says. His mouth quirks. “Even without the plumed tail. I’ll make things right with your hosts, shall I? No trouble.”

*

He casts a wry glance at Crowley when the angel describes him as handsome, the sort of look that says _I know you’re secretly putting me on, but thank you all the same._ His smile does widen a little at the offer to settle up with the innkeepers.

“No need. Just tell them I’ve been called away on business and will be back in two days. The room’s paid for through the end of the week, anyway. If you need some peace and quiet before I’m back, you’re welcome to it.”

It’s not as if he ever sleeps anyway. A bed is just a place to sit and do some reading or practice any of his instruments, or else the setting for a few hours of desire.

The angel’s expression is still quietly worried, a sight that sets little ripples of emotion flowering under his skin. Aziraphale reaches out, puts a hand on his thin shoulder, and it takes no effort at all to summon up a real smile.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “For tonight.”

*

Crowley just raises an eyebrow back at that wry glance, the sort that says _What? Surely you haven’t missed it, haven’t you ever looked in a mirror?_ The nuance of which may get lost. Or not. Crowley has surprisingly expressive eyebrows.

“May take you up on that offer,” he admits. “For a few hours at least, if I can find them. Feel like I could sleep for a year if I just had the time to spare for it.”

The hand on his shoulder turns Crowley’s smile full and unshadowed for a minute, and he reaches up to cover it with his own hand. “Isn’t that my line?” he teases a little. “You brought the pastries and wine, after all. But you’re welcome.” His fingers squeeze a little. “Thank you, too. For…” _For trusting me. For being here when you didn’t have to be. For everything._ He doesn’t know what exactly he’s thanking Aziraphale for, all those things but something else besides that he can’t find words for, and is forced to settle for Aziraphale’s own. “...for tonight.”

*

That smile is so brilliant, starlight-soft and real, that for just a moment Aziraphale forgets himself. His free hand lifts to brush at Crowley’s cheek, the pad of his thumb stroking gently over warm skin, the tips of his fingers skimming near Crowley’s sharp jaw.

He knows what he wants to say, and in the same second he knows he can’t possibly say it. Not to an angel. Not after the day they’ve both had. Not here, not now.

Instead he lets his hand drop.

“I’ll see you in two days,” he murmurs, and then he turns and leaves the garden. His steps are quick—he has to be quick, or he might change his mind and make a terrible mistake—and they take him right past his room, down into the cellar where the proprietors keep various dry goods in storage.

With one finger Aziraphale sketches a symbol on the door into the little closet where they keep their wine. The symbol glows and sizzles, and the door swings open, and he steps into Hell, leaving behind only a faint scent of brimstone.

*

The look on Aziraphale’s face, for a moment, is one Crowley doesn’t recognize. It's not one he’s ever seen there. Not unhappy, but… poised? He doesn’t know.

The demon’s fingers are feather-soft on his face, the caress breathtakingly gentle.

And then they’re gone, and so is Aziraphale, with a last quiet promise and a flurry of footsteps. By the time Crowley has recovered enough from his astonishment to turn around, there’s nothing to see.

Crowley sits there in the garden for some time, staring at that nothing. Every once in a while he raises his fingers to his cheek, his expression faintly confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Longest chapter yet, but it resisted all attempts to split it in two. Personally I want to thank Goose for the talking statue, an image which startled me out of my wits when it happened.
> 
> We're going to need to switch to updating every two weeks instead of every week pretty soon, as the story is catching up to us faster than we can write it even though there's still a bit of backlog. We'll finish with this general geographical location first, however.
> 
> Please let us know what you think, if you have a moment. =)


	11. The Harrowing of Hell and the Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a demon returns to Hell, the Son of God achieves his goal, and an angel does bad impressions.

Later, humans will call the days between Yeshua’s death and resurrection the Harrowing of Hell. The first time he hears it, Aziraphale will both find it an appropriate term and immediately feel a need to get stinking drunk.

When he arrives, the place is in chaos; it takes him longer than he’d like to pull aside a junior demon and ask what the bloody Heaven is going on around here.

“Some human,” the junior demon gibbers. “Just walked in. Nobody can touch him. Not sure what he’s on about, he just came in all—covered in holiness.”

Aziraphale lets the pitiful creature continue with whatever panic attack it’s having, and pushes his way through the shouting, agitated crowds of his coworkers to see for himself.

The bright young man who died struggling on the cross walks calmly through Hell, bringing quiet with him; the souls of the dead all fall silent to watch. Aziraphale watches too, with his heart in his throat, some awful incomprehensible feeling rippling through him. He knows his temptations failed. This shouldn’t be happening.

But he understands when he sees Yeshua offer his hand out to the shades of Adam and Eve, gentle without being patronizing, an earnest love in his eyes.

 _Rise, and walk with me_ , he says to them, his murmur ringing through every circle of Hell.

They do.

Soon there’s a veritable parade of souls behind him. Some Aziraphale recognizes—Lot’s wife, in particular, her eternal weeping finally at an end—and some he doesn’t, but their sins fall away as they stand and join the Son of God. All the best of them shines through: love, mercy, curiosity, joy. Each and every soul seems to wear the best deed they ever did like a halo. Redemption crowns every single one of them, no matter how humble.

The other demons have started scrambling to figure out what to do about this, whether this is in the rules, if there’s some way to trick this interloper into staying; Aziraphale doesn’t bother. He just drifts after the shining group of souls like smoke, observing the man he had hoped to reassure in his last moments bringing hope and peace back to the dead.

All he can think is, _Crowley’s going to be so happy._

Because laughter is waking in Eve’s eyes again, the joy that eased an angel’s sorrow when the world was young. Edith no longer weeps but rejoices, arms around her daughters—and another Edith follows behind, too, a woman who as a little girl followed a white cat into the night, away from the disaster that befell Sodom and Gomorrah.

The Gates will be opened for them. They will have rest, and forgiveness, and mercy.

And for one aching moment near the end of the procession, as he watches the parade of souls make its way back towards the yawning mouth of Hell, he wishes he could risk playing his flute for them. Instead he simply moves to stand by the entrance, hoping to catch Yeshua’s eye for a moment, to confirm what his heart already knows.

*

Yeshua’s walk through Hell has been astonishing in its gentleness, a thing unknown in the lower realms except in memory. Any who see him fall silent, whether human or demon. Holiness surrounds him not as armor, but as a great shield—not for his protection, but for all those who walk with him when he bids. Adam bows his head and rises with humble tears in his eyes; Eve’s smile is bright and trusting. Edith’s face is exalted as she follows, and her daughters smile without fear as they link their arms in their mother’s. There are others, so many, countless numbers.

(The number will be counted later; it will be the work of many years to untangle how many have escaped, and who, and why, and to come up with a new system of temptations and evils to counteract what to Hell’s perspective can only be seen as a fearsome weapon.)

There are those who refuse, who shy away in fear or horror or despair. Yeshua asks them again, and on the second offering some take hold of his hand and rise; some still refuse, and the second time he accepts their refusal. With sorrow, but he accepts.

Grief and fear and pain fall away from those who follow him, forgotten or transformed. Their brightness is less than his, but all of them shine. No part of Hell escapes Yeshua’s gaze. It washes over all, sees into every pit, every soul, every damned heart, whether human or demon.

When at last his walk nears its end and he leads his great procession to the mouth of Hell, he sees Aziraphale waiting there, and this time his smile alters a little and becomes more personal. It is filled not with triumph, but relief. _Look_ , it says. _It is as I promised; I did not fail. I come bearing forgiveness, and justice, and a new path. One wide enough to encompass all who would walk upon it and rise._

Yeshua stops one more time, and holds his hand out to Aziraphale in silent offer.

_Wide enough for you also, if you wish. You tempted me with simplicity, once; will you now permit me to tempt you with grace?_

His eyes are kind and hopeful, full to the brim with unquestionable love.

*

For the first time, Hell rings with the sounds of happy laughter, of joyful celebration. These sounds will not be heard here again, not for an eternity, and for all its cacophony he’s rarely heard sweeter music. Aziraphale takes in the sight like he can somehow preserve it to show to Crowley later, making note of souls he can identify by name.

Then Yeshua approaches him, holds out his hand, and all the joyful noise fades to a soft white hissing, as if time is grinding to a halt, removing reality from his reach.

He’s never been more tempted in his life.

Thousands of years of mourning in silence, of being unable to shake the knowledge of what he’s lost, of avoiding sleep so he doesn’t have to relive his memories of his Fall and humiliating rejection. Thousands of years of a sore throat, of running into white-winged and conspicuously righteous angels who sneer at him, of being reminded that he doesn’t belong among his brethren anymore.

Thousands of years of knowing, in the very deepest parts of his soul, that he cannot repent.

Whatever Yeshua might think, Heaven will not be kind to him, and he’ll have an enormous Hellish target on his back for the rest of his existence. Above won’t tolerate his constant small sins, his unorthodox methods; Below won’t relinquish their hold on him without a fight, simply on principle. After all, if the Serpent of Eden defects, anyone could get the idea it’s all right—they’d want to make an example of him.

And the home he’d once believed in, a home where he was part of a loving family with his own divine purpose, never really existed. The other angels showed him that long ago, when no one at the Gates would take pity on him, when the Messenger had turned his back on him.

_You know I can’t go back._

He can’t speak, but somehow he knows Yeshua can hear what’s in his heart.

_You may have grace to offer—and I wish it were enough, I truly do—but you will be the only one. Most angels aren’t as kind as humans. They’ll never trust a demon; they will never forget that I was the last to Fall. I wish it were as simple for me as it is for the souls who follow you. But I have no home in Heaven to return to; there will be no rest there. Not for me._

*

Yeshua’s smile is sad, but he nods as he lowers his hand, unsurprised.

_You are wrong, my friend. It would not only be myself who would welcome you, and my Heavenly Father would rejoice at your return. But choose as you will; the path remains. If you should change your mind, I will hear you. Remember it. Remember me._

He looks away and walks through the entrance, a procession of light following in his wake.

_There is more than one path. I will pray that you find yours, Aziraphale who was once Israfel._

*

He swallows around a sudden cold lump in his throat, watching thousands upon thousands of souls leave Hell. Among them are a handful of his coworkers, minor spirits who’ve long since gotten sick of brimstone and misery; the lower-downs will be surprised, perhaps, to lose them, but it’s more than likely they won’t be assassinated for their change of heart.

Aziraphale can’t bring himself to do anything but wish them well as he watches the crusted ash begin to flake off their tattered wings. Perhaps God will welcome them back; perhaps they’ll be happy back in Heaven. Perhaps, despite everything he’s seen and observed and lived through, the other angels will be kind to them.

But he also breathes more easily as the last echo of Yeshua’s voice fades in his mind—well, as easily as he can in the foul air of the underworld. Because he also feels the eyes of the other, un-tempted demons slide away from him, feels suspicion shift away from him, and as the place descends back into disorganized panic he slips through a side corridor to find a doorway. Again he sketches a symbol on it, takes a confident step through, back into the clearer air of the earth—in fact, straight back into the cellar of his inn in Jerusalem.

There’s no way around it. As soon as he reaches the front room, where Flavia the off-hours girl is setting up an arrangement of fresh flowers, he snaps his fingers; she goes still, eyes glassing over.

“How long have I been gone?” he demands, unable to keep the rasping edge of a cough from his voice.

“Almost two days."

Almost. Thank Satan he hasn't missed it. “Has my friend been by?”

“Yes.” She blinks slowly. “He gave me a basket of leftover pastry and some gold coins. Left about an hour ago.”

Aziraphale glances towards the windows. The sky has already softened with the first flush of dawn; it won’t be long at all till sunrise.

“You’ve been having a very nice dream,” he tells her, “about—about whatever you like best,” and then he snaps his fingers again.

Flavia is too dazed to notice the white cat that streaks out into the street.

*

Crowley is indeed by the tomb. He’s not happy about it.

He’s also, once again, not alone.

Gabriel’s wide grin is in place. His robes are white and shining, pristine; when he eventually unfolds his wings they’ll be just as flawless. “You’ve done a great job here, Sheelael. We’re all very pleased with how it’s turned out. Commendation in your future, no question.”

Crowley looks as though he’s silently counting to ten, his face set. He takes a breath, but before he can say anything Gabriel keeps talking. “I’ll take it from here, so you may as well head off for now. Get a bit of well-earned rest, right? Do some exercise, spend a few years catching up on… gardening, wasn’t it?” Gabriel’s teeth are even more white than his robes, and Crowley’s hands fist by his side as though he’d very much like to punch them.

The archangel claps a hand on his back hard enough to be winding, then waves in dismissal. Crowley waits a moment longer (partly to get his breath back), then turns on his heel and walks off without bothering to say any sort of polite farewell. There are no humans around, by careful arrangement. But if there were they might, just might, hear an angel swearing very quietly and very creatively under his breath as he doesn't quite stomp across the plain between the tomb and the city.

If a white cat has been nearby keeping out of sight during this conversation, it might hear that also.

*

It doesn’t take Aziraphale long to get an idea of where he’s going, thanks to the chatty strays of the city. The sky is pink and gold by the time he’s picked his way out of the city towards the tomb Crowley mentioned—but a ways off, he stops, every strand of white fur standing on end.

Beside the thin black-clad figure is someone tall and robed in blinding white, power pouring off of him like the thick scent of very strong incense. Familiar power—and, even from a distance, the familiar cadence of a booming voice that chills Aziraphale’s blood.

_If you apologize you can come back._

On silent paws he creeps closer, body flattened against whatever stones he can find for cover; he just manages to hear the end of the conversation, wincing as he catches the sound of Gabriel thumping Crowley far too hard on the back. Condescending prick, he thinks, and for a moment he’s fiercely tempted to turn himself into a bigger species of cat and scare the daylights out of the archangel with a roar and a flash of huge teeth.

But Crowley moves off, muttering to himself, and Aziraphale pads after him. Only once they’re a fair distance from Gabriel does he dart forward and butt his head against one of the angel’s ankles.

*

Crowley is too busy going away and swearing ( “—sanctimonious, insensitive, self-righteous bloody _arse_ —”) to notice much around him, and nearly jumps out of his sandals when something hits his leg. Small fluffy battering rams are not a common occurrence in his experience.

But once he looks down he brightens at once, reaching without hesitation to pick Aziraphale up, scratching between his ears and on the back of his neck with one hand while supporting him on his other arm, holding him as he did once thirty-three years ago. “You’re back,” he murmurs, smiling with open relief. “And all right, I hope?”

*

At once Aziraphale’s entire furry body vibrates with a steady purr; he rubs his head enthusiastically into Crowley’s hand, eyes closing for a moment in pure feline contentment. He could change back, but he likes this easy warmth and closeness too much to give it up for now.

“Quite all right, and I doubt I’ll be missed for a while.” He shifts, making sure his limbs are all arranged comfortably in the angel’s grip, tucking in his paws and tail. “You? Haven’t had to spend too much time listening to the Messenger yammering about his own greatness?”

*

Crowley’s face darkens with annoyance again, and his arms unconsciously tighten around the cat. “Two bloody minutes listening to him is too much bloody time,” he grumbles. It’s not quite a snarl, but it’s near to one. One might think that Crowley does not like God’s Messenger. One would be very much correct.

He seems to realize his own tension then, and takes a deep breath, relaxing his hold. “Sorry. He has a knack for getting under my skin. Especially today.” Crowley makes a face. “I’ve effectively been dismissed for the near future, so no one will be looking for me either. I want to see this finished first though, even if I don't have to. Watch with me? From a distance, of course,” he adds. It is no part of his wishes to draw Gabriel’s attention to either of them, though especially not Aziraphale. And they can make their eyes as keen as they need to. “Shouldn’t take long. Maryam and the others are probably already on their way, now that the sun is rising.”

*

Though on his fluffy face it registers as a narrowing of eyes and a slow blink, Aziraphale can’t hold back a grin—both at their shared dislike of God’s Horrible Pompous Messenger and at that casual concern for his well-being.

“Mm. Then afterwards we can have breakfast and I can tell you about the big to-do at the head office.”

The mention of Maryam brings up one of his only memories of her—a sweet girl, hair still mussed and sweat-damp from a long day spent at the hard work of giving birth. He’s now seen her only at the beginning and the end of her son’s life, and can only wonder at what went on during the time between, but he imagines that someone who could talk back to the Archangel Gabriel would have been a decent mother.

*

Crowley, familiar both with his friend and with cats, can translate that expression without difficulty, and grins right back. “Breakfast,” he says fervently, “sounds perfect. Bit early in the day for drinking, but that too. We’ve earned it, between you dealing with Whatever down below and me dealing with Gabriel acting all insufferable.” Besides, their last meal was interrupted. Clearly they need to make up for it. Crowley snorts again, looking around for a good place for them to sit and watch. “What am I saying? It wasn’t acting, he actually is insufferable, the—ugh, don’t get me started. Have I mentioned how much I don’t miss being up in the main office? Here, let’s get a seat while we wait. Well, I will. You’re already sitting. Spoiled creature.”

It’s a fair tease given how Aziraphale is still happily curled up in Crowley’s arms, and Crowley makes sure to keep him there as he finds a handy rock to sit on. He then shifts the cat onto his lap and starts stroking the fur. It comes so easily now, no thought required, no lurking doubt. Better, it’s proof that Aziraphale is safe and whole. The past two days have passed very slowly for Crowley, worrying about what was going on down below, while simultaneously juggling the grief of a number of humans. The repetitive, grounding motion of stroking a cat—this cat, this cat-shaped person—is comforting beyond words.

*

As thin and bony as Crowley is, his lap is tremendously comfortable, not least because he’s excellent at petting cats. Aziraphale has, on quite a few occasions, wiled his way into the laps of housewives and cooks and children and soldiers; once every other century, if he’s lucky, he meets someone who’s as good at this as Crowley is, with just the right combination of long strokes and scritches at the back of the neck and bases of the ears.

The long white tail swishes, feathery tip patting against the crook of Crowley’s elbow, as Aziraphale settles.

“There’s still time to turn myself into a lion and chase him off,” he says, with the kind of lazy tone that means this is not a thing I’m actually going to do but you had better believe my daydreams about it are elaborate. “Or a whole cloud of wasps, maybe.”

*

“Much as I love the idea, I’d rather you didn't put yourself at risk,” Crowley says. It’s amused, with an unmistakable overtone of _But I’ll happily imagine it, often, thanks for the mental image._ “Although… a bird, maybe? How’s your aim?”

But there are three women approaching the tomb now, slowly, their attitudes those of grief. Sabbath is over. Crowley sighs, going serious again. “Right, here we go. That’s… Maryam, yes. And the other Maryam, and that one’s Salome…” The women’s cries of amazement as they see the great rock has been rolled away can be heard even from this distance. The shine of Gabriel’s robes as he steps forward is even more glaring.

Crowley groans and leans back on one hand, the other still playing with Aziraphale’s fur. “ _Who has moved the rock that guarded our Lord’s tomb?_ ” he asks, speaking for the women, not unkindly.

Rather less kindly he deepens his voice and adds a definite condescending edge. “ _That would be me, lowly mortals, how lucky you are to be blessed with my glorious presence! And by the way, seek ye not for the Lord here, for he is already Risen, didn’t you get the memo?_ ”

“ _What memo?!?_ ” Crowley asks himself, higher-pitched again.

“ _The one telling you he was Risen! Poor foolish humans, you’d never get anything done without me, how fortunate for you all that I’m here to spell it out for you. He lives again and shall rise to his Father’s side in Heaven, and if I’m very very lucky then in a few millennia I might be half as holy as he is but probably not because I’m a smug arrogant twerp, now run along and tell all your friends to rejoice…_ ”

Crowley runs out of steam there, as though the game has ceased being fun, and sighs. Maryam of Magdala and Salome are indeed running back towards Jerusalem, but the third figure stays in front of Gabriel. Crowley can see the anger in her and winces. He doesn’t blame her, and this is the one part of his duty today that he’s a little relieved to have taken out of his hands. He can imagine this conversation too, all too well, but isn’t about to voice it. Maryam isn’t mourning a teacher and leader, she’s mourning a son. Even Resurrected as Yeshua is, he’s still lost to her.

It’s only a minute before Maryam kneels, as though kissing the hem of Gabriel’s robe. Crowley frowns in confusion, wondering if he’s missed something.

Then Maryam, most highly blessed and favored among women, takes off her sandal and smacks the Archangel Gabriel in the face with it, before turning her back on him and walking away.

Crowley watches in amazement. “Always did like her,” he says finally. “Think he knows how much she just insulted him? Shoes are regarded as unclean around here, for some reason.”

*

There’s a moment of silence; even Aziraphale’s purring has gone quiet.

Then something miraculous happens: the cat in Crowley’s lap begins to laugh.

Cats rarely laugh, except occasionally to themselves at the species-wide in-joke that they’ve managed to trick humans into adopting them without subjecting them to the same degree of breeding and training as dogs. Certainly it’s a sight neither mortal souls nor otherworldly ones are ever lucky enough to witness.

Aziraphale’s whole body shakes with it—more sound than a cat’s body ought to be able to contain, a full and broad and ringing laugh despite the fur and the pointed teeth. It shakes him so hard he rolls onto his back, and then all the way off Crowley’s lap, onto the ground and back into a human form. This time the fiery tears streaming down his face are tears of mirth; he actually starts to wheeze with the force of his own laughter.

Four thousand years and change, and he’s never laughed this hard before. The only times he’s come close have been Babel and Bethlehem, talking with Crowley. Fitting, that the angel is here to witness the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

*

It takes Crowley a few seconds to decipher the sound. A cat laughing, even when he knows perfectly well it’s a demon in cat form, is not something you come across every day. Or ever.

Then Aziraphale rolls off Crowley’s lap, off the rock, shaking with hilarity to the point where he’s unable to breathe, laughing as violently as he was wrecked with sobs only three days ago.

Crowley’s smile grows and grows as he watches, drinks in the sound, lets it sink into him like sunlight, until he starts chuckling too, and then he’s clutching at his stomach and bent half over with laughter and he should try to contain himself, contain both of them, he really should, if Gabriel hears them and comes over to see what the fuss is about they’ll both be royally ( _divinely_ , he corrects in his head, which just sets him off again) fucked. But he can’t stop now that they’ve started. Several years of tension breaks in the best, most wonderful way, glorious in a way that has nothing to do with Heaven or any of the day’s miraculous events, and better for it.

*

Of course once Crowley’s started it’s nearly impossible for Aziraphale to stop. He’s gasping for breath, head thrown back and eyes streaming, unable to sit up. It takes him several long moments to get enough control of himself to pull in a proper lungful of air, and even then his voice is very nearly a cackle.

“‘Might see—something worth seeing’—oh, you have a _way_ > with words, Crowley—!”

For now, all thought of Yeshua’s sad eyes and weeping disciples, of the tempting offer Aziraphale could not accept, has been swept aside by the simple sight of a human woman walloping an archangel with her shoe. Later, perhaps, he’ll see if a demonic blessing will stick to her, but for now the sheer delight of this moment sweeps aside all his other concerns.

He scrubs a few sparking tears off his cheeks with the sleeves of his white tunic, but the laughter just keeps coming.

*

“Not—what I meant!” Crowley attempts, barely comprehensible because he’s howling with laughter. “Didn’t know she’d—how could I? Was supposed to be _me_ in there delivering the news, ‘til Archangel My Teeth Are Holier Than Thou showed up to take over...!”

He can barely say the name before he falls over, curled on his side on the rock, his side almost splitting from the force of his hilarity.

*

The thought of high-and-mighty Gabriel swanning in to snatch up the most prestigious part of a job only to be smacked in the face for his troubles only makes it funnier to Aziraphale. Add in Crowley’s uncontrolled giggles and it’s enough to make his ribs and belly and lungs ache.

It’s some time before he manages to calm himself enough to sit up—there’s dust all over his robes from rolling on the ground like an actual child, but he can’t bring himself to mind. Not when this, of all things, is the cause. His face is probably grubby with tears of laughter and more dust; he doesn’t give a blessing how disheveled he looks.

“Fantastic woman, that Maryam,” he manages, with a hiccup. “Buy her a round of drinks if I could.”

*

Crowley is finally calming down, with only the occasional eruption of giggles. “She wouldn’t thank you for it,” he says, wiping tears of mirth from his face. “Not today. Maybe in a few years.”

He rolls into his back and sighs up at the sky, beaming, then lifts his head to look up. “So seeing as they’re too busy to look for you, and I’ve just been all but ordered to go run along and amuse myself for a few years… breakfast?” He looks up with an exuberant grin. “I owe you pastry.”

*

For a single shining moment, though he can’t possibly know it, Aziraphale’s smile is as beaming and brilliant as it was when he was still an angel.

(And deep down in the innermost secret chambers of his heart, the places so private that only song and memory can live there, is a conviction that he couldn’t have begun to explain to Yeshua: Heaven wouldn’t allow him this. Heaven would frown on their laughter. They wouldn’t know what to do with an angel who had learned how to fall in love, as Aziraphale has. Even if they never found out his treacherously human feelings, more than likely they would assign him somewhere far from Crowley. Hell may not be where he belongs, but at least once in a while he can have this precious time in the world with the only person who cares about him.)

“You hardly owe me,” he grins, “but I can already tell you’re going to insist, so breakfast it is.”

*

Aziraphale looks golden as sunlight, smiling like that, his curls glowing and eyes shining and everything about him speaking of contentment and happiness, however momentary.

(Crowley will never forget the sight. Years from now he’ll try to commission a sculptor or painter or three to capture it, but none will ever do the moment full justice. But then, how could they?)

“Do so,” Crowley counters, leaning up on his elbows. “You’ve treated me to two meals, it’s my turn. Somewhere else, though, I’ve had my fill of Jerusalem for a little while.”

Also things are going to get complicated and exciting around here, thankfully in a way he’s not needed to micromanage or even watch. “Far away, for preference,” he clarifies. “Know anywhere good? I can get us wherever.”

*

“Anywhere?”

He mulls that over for a moment. Jerusalem is a lovely city, to be sure, but if Crowley’s really offering to head further afield for the day...

“Have you ever been to Illyricum?” Aziraphale asks. “Beautiful countryside, especially this time of year. And Salona’s a lovely city—especially the Bridge of Five Arches. Excellent local wine, too.”

*

Crowley sits up properly, wearing an expression of mock-offense. “A beautiful countryside and excellent local wine?” he says. “You are clearly tempting me, foulest of foul fiends, and I shouldn’t stand for it, except that it sounds absolutely perfect. Let’s go.”

The teasing expression slips into a thoroughly impish grin as he stands and dusts himself off, makes a face, and uses a minor miracle to change his not so gleaming as Gabriel’s but still decidedly angelic robes into an outfit that’s more the thing an average Roman citizen would wear. Partly in black, unlike his robes of a moment ago. Then he hops off the rock and offers a hand to help Aziraphale up.

*

There’s no temptation that works half so well on him as that impish look and the accompanying spark in Crowley’s golden brown eyes. With a grin of his own Aziraphale takes the angel’s hand, hauling himself to his feet with the offered assistance, the dust falling away from his already-suitably-Roman garb.

“You know, I think it might be the right time of year for strawberries,” he muses, giving Crowley’s hand a little squeeze before he lets go. “If you’ve never tried them, we should do that first. Perfect breakfast food, especially with a little warm honey cake...”

He’ll be all too glad to leave this place behind for a while, himself. Let Hell wring their infernal hands and Heaven listen to Gabriel’s whining a while; Crowley and Aziraphale have both earned a few days’ worth of rest, at least.

*

There are strawberries. And honey cake and wine, and good company, the best of company, and a day spent laughing in the sunshine. They toast Maryam at least sixteen times, her shoe several more times, and each other once or twice.

They also toast Yeshua, but only once, and more solemnly. Aziraphale tells Crowley a little about the Harrowing of Hell, and Crowley covers his face from a relief so intense it’s almost painful at the knowledge that so many humans he loved in the past have been freed from their (in his opinion excessive and unjustified) torment.

But they only speak of it briefly. Neither one of them wants to talk work, not when they have such a precious space of time unlooked for. Before long Crowley turns the conversation, tells some of the more funny tales of the past few years, both of Yeshua and of some of his followers. Some will be written down in years to come, others not. Some stories are more personal, such as how Crowley ended up imitating a chicken in order to distract a few Roman guards from interrupting a particular meeting at a key moment. (“It worked!” he protests in his own defense, and then proceeds to do his best chicken impression, which is terrible, and probably would not have been much better if he were sober.)

Later in the evening when they’ve both mellowed a little they watch the sun set and the stars rise, and Aziraphale once more takes the form of a white cat and condescends to let Crowley pet him for a while. Crowley tells more stories of the stars, and stories humans have told about the stars. Aziraphale is a warm, purring weight on his lap, his fur the softest thing in the creation.

It’s the best day Crowley can ever remember spending in the whole of his long existence, and he says so.

He doesn’t understand why it ends as soon as it does—surely they could just keep going for a few more days without getting caught, given all the circumstances?—but eventually Aziraphale takes his leave. Not without thanks, and not without agreement that they’ll meet again sometime soon, for a value of soon that will hopefully be less than a century, but he still leaves. 

Crowley tries not to be too disappointed. He’s used to missing the demon, and they’re still on opposite sides. Time together is always stolen; he at least can console himself with the knowledge that they are friends, despite everything.

But while the memory of that perfect, golden day makes him smile often during the ensuing years, warming him from the inside out, sometimes he’ll touch his own cheek lightly, remembering a garden and something that might have been a caress, and an expression on Aziraphale’s face that he still can’t decipher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have gathered that this fic could be subtitled "The authors use Crowley and Aziraphale to right various wrongs in Biblical history that they're annoyed about." Edith deserved better, dammit. So did Adam and Eve. So did Yeshua, come to that. Thanks to all those of you who commented to say you liked him. =) Also we hope you enjoy the image of Mary thwacking Gabriel in the face with her sandal as much as we did. ;)
> 
> Obviously given current events our regular posting schedule has gone out the window. But we're not done and the story continues, promise. =) If it gives you any joy or entertainment or at least distraction, our aim is accomplished. We hope it does. =)
> 
> Also to our unutterable delight (there was a lot of exclamation marks and capital letters), we have fanart!!! AAHHHHH HOW AWESOME! For chapters one and two. Posting it at the end of those chapters if you want a look!
> 
> Love to all. Be kind, make art, and be assured that any impression of a chicken you make is still better than the one Crowley attempted.


	12. Rome, January 22nd, AD 41 (Evening)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when everything is going well, along comes bloody Caligula.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter definitely merits the Mature rating we've given the fic, though nothing explicit is shown or said. And honestly I don't even know how to begin with the content warnings, though again most of it is suggested/narrated rather than shown. Here goes:
> 
> CW: Caligula, which means madness and unspoken but implicit threats of violence. Deliberate misgendering as part of forced playacting, which doesn't bother the being in question but if that troubles you, be warned. Discussion of cruelty/bullying towards someone with disabilies. Discussion of sexual activity/proclivity, with some (brief) slut-shaming and general nastiness from unnamed background characters. If I've left something out please let me know and I'll update this, as always. 
> 
> We are not historians and therefore have taken certain liberties which we'll excuse/explain in the end notes. No doubt there are just plain errors also, which we hope you will forgive. -Ashfae

Eight years later Crowley is still in the Roman Empire, but now he has work to do.

Caligula is emperor, consul, and—according to himself—a god. His orgies are infamous even by the standards of the most debauched. He throws a section of the audience into the arena because he's bored, ordering them to fight to the death for his amusement. He makes his horse into a priest and threatens to raise him to the position of consul.

It’s with very great reluctance that Crowley goes anywhere near Rome, given what he's heard about it lately. But orders from Heaven are orders, and he has blessings to bestow and things to arrange. Which is why early 41 A.D. finds him in Caligula’s palace, meeting quietly with the emperor’s uncle Claudius. For some value of ‘quietly’.

The Romans are past masters of combining business with pleasure, and Claudius is a past master of making himself overlooked, which is one reason he’s survived his cutthroat family for so long. The man has a pronounced limp, an almost as pronounced stutter, and is hard of hearing. He also doesn’t look at all well, and confides in Crowley that his nephew greatly enjoys playing various practical jokes on him. Crowley correctly interprets this as ‘publicly torments the hell out of.’ Heaven’s ordered him to protect Claudius; Heaven might not have told him to cure the man’s stomach ulcer or help him get a few good nights’ sleep, but Crowley will all the same.

They talk quietly together about history in a large room filled with gold decorations, gold-encrusted slaves, rich foods on tables, lavish purple cushions on lounges and loveseats. Some of the furniture is occupied; some of it is occupied by more than one person at once. Musicians play in the center of the room, but not loudly enough to block out the sounds of debauchery from all corners. 

Across the room sits Caligula, dressed as Jupiter himself, and the sound of his laughter is cruel.

*

Technically, Aziraphale is on assignment tempting Emperor Caligula. In reality, the man needs no external temptation—he’s already paranoid and decadent, given to whim and excess and extreme mood swings. So while Aziraphale sticks close enough to the Imperial retinue to observe (and to take in enough information to fudge his reports), he doesn’t have much to do with the emperor himself. After Nimrod, he’s learned to think twice before trying to whisper to someone with the power to sway the Almighty’s attention.

Which is not to say that he’s gone entirely unnoticed at court. Caligula has presented him with silver laurels to wear—and all he had to do, he notes with some spiteful pride, was play the flute and the lyre. Some of the courtiers have nicknamed him Apollo, an affectation Caligula himself has also adopted; he’s privately rather proud of that.

And while he avoids tempting Caligula, there are temptations that haunt Aziraphale on a near-constant basis.

In quiet moments, on particularly sunny days or when there’s wine from Illyricum poured for a court meal or strawberries on the banquet table, he’s reminded of that gorgeous day in Salona. Of an angel laughing, of long spindly hands stroking over his cat’s body, of a voice soft with delight spinning tales of the stars above them.

Only now, Satan help him, he can no longer avoid the longing that accompanies the memories. He can’t stop imagining what might have happened had he leaned over to steal a kiss from those smiling lips, had he run his hands through Crowley’s hair, had he taken human form while sitting in the angel’s lap. Desire is a flame with endless fuel, licking at the inside of his skin day and night.

The debauchery of Rome does little to satisfy him. He spends weeks at a time wandering from orgy to orgy, submerging himself in sensual pleasure, and still his thoughts are haunted by an angel’s smile. His heart echoes with a helpless, hopeless refrain, _I miss you, I love you, I want you as I once wanted Heaven_ , and nothing he does can do more than dull it for a while.

Maybe, he tells himself, if he keeps at it long enough, he’ll get over this inconvenient yearning. Maybe eventually, he thinks, he’ll believe it.

One evening he’s summoned from his favorite restaurant on the will of the emperor, who wishes for good music, to impress the guests at his latest banquet-slash-orgy. Half lost in his own thoughts, as he usually is these days, he follows the messenger up to the palace; the servants, who know him well by now, shoot him sympathetic glances as they usher him in and hand him the gold and silver lyre Caligula’s had made for him.

His music enters the emperor’s presence before he does himself. The melody he plays starts out low and thrumming, whispering of the first pulses of desire, rising and rising, skipping like a frantic heartbeat.

*

Crowley might give off the impression of being innocent sometimes, and perhaps in some ways he is. But he’s also observant, and he’s been on Earth for over four thousand years. A person sees a lot in that amount of time, particularly when their job is discouraging sin. Can’t discourage sin without spending a lot of time with sinners.

That said, this party takes the proverbial biscuit. It also takes the proverbial oyster, caviar, lobster, and just about every other bit of seafood that can be named, plus they’re only taken after they’ve been doused in champagne, interesting mushrooms or powders, and quite often various bodily excretions as well. All the seven sins are abundantly on display, with the possible exception of wrath. That one lurks waiting in the wings, hidden somewhere behind Caligula’s eyes and in the way everyone in the room always makes sure to be aware of him.

Crowley isn’t afraid. He’s almost never afraid. What has he to fear? He’s an angel of the Lord, he has faith, he knows himself protected. When he fears, it’s for other people rather than himself.

It’s all pretty unpleasant, though: loud, smelly, hot, and to be frank, squelchy. Plus he feels more than a little sorry for poor Claudius, fascinated by the law and politics but not taken seriously by most of those around him, a man who would probably live a happier life if it were more humble. A historian or scholar, perhaps. Claudius’ beautiful, pregnant wife is across the room laughing with one of the senators and seems in her element, but the man himself would prefer to be somewhere else. 

Crowley has only been here a few days and is still working to earn his trust, which he can already tell will be difficult for all that Claudius has been both unfailingly polite and surprisingly witty. Caligula’s uncle can act foolish and speaks carefully, but his eyes are sharp and intelligent, and his mind is sharper yet. So they talk about history and gradually the man unbends a little in his enthusiasm over philosophy. Crowley might not be well-read, but he remembers most things he’s ever heard, including speeches. And every scholar born loves to be asked questions.

Heat and squelchy noises aside, it’s not that bad an evening, especially once someone begins playing a lyre just outside the room. Crowley’s sure he’s never heard music like the melody that begins playing. The present musicians fall silent at once, recognizing a superior or at least summoned talent. Most of the room goes quieter for a minute, Claudius included, such is the power of the music. The rising speed of the notes, like the tide coming in… Crowley’s never heard anything quite like it, and wishes he could hear it more clearly.

But they’re on the other side of the room (by design; Claudius stays far away from his nephew if at all possible), and sectioned off a little by some rich curtains; he can’t see the musician. The music grows but so too does the noise in the room once more, as some act on the suggestive notes. Crowley sighs, wondering how long this endless party will last and if he and Claudius can possibly just wander off unnoticed. Probably not. He suggests it to Claudius, who at once shakes his head. “Apollo is summoned,” he says quietly, his stutter calmed for the moment. “All must remain to listen, when the emperor calls him. He is highly favored at present. And in truth well worth listening to, when he plays.”

“Not when he speaks?” Crowley says absently, his attention still caught by the swell of the melody.

Claudius grimaces. “That depends on what he says.”

But one of the senators joins them at this point, and the conversation drifts to more general matters. Crowley tries to pay attention to that instead of to the music. It’s surprisingly difficult. He wishes he could get a look at the musician, at least.

*

Sometimes when Aziraphale plays, people fall silent to listen, stop everything to wander after the sweetness of his melodies. Tonight he weaves his notes through the sighs and moans and laughter of Caligula’s guests, encouraging what’s already there, his song the beating heart of the action. The sound leaps like flame from his fingers as they fly over the strings of the lyre, and he lets it carry the hungers of his heart.

 _Let me touch_ , the music murmurs, to humans who copy the message onto one another’s skin. _Let me worship, with hands and mouth and body._ He knows the lyre well enough by now that he can shut his eyes as he plays, spin the song out of his own memories.

He imagines an angel’s lips wet with wine, the long pale plane of an inner wrist, the caress of a thumb over his knuckles. He imagines what it would be like to be free of their jobs, unnoticed and unwatched, free as mortals, naked and unashamed. This same fantasy has been with him for centuries, and still it burns with urgent want, a torment more persistent and agonizing than anything Hell could devise. Already he knows that as soon as Caligula has had enough music for the evening he’ll be seeking temporary relief with one of the humans he knows must be shooting him lustful looks—a few hours’ satisfaction, another brief half measure to soothe a desire that can never be fulfilled.

The song grows wilder, sweeter, providing a rough harmony to the rising cries of a couple in ecstasy somewhere nearby. _Yes_ , the lyre sings, _slake your passions with mine, let me hear the music of your pleasure_ , and somehow the voices of the couple and the strings of his lyre form a final, gloriously debauched, climactic chord.

Several people applaud. He opens his eyes, beams a winsome smile around the room, already scanning the crowd for some man or woman with a playful enough grin or almost the right colored eyes.

*

The senator quickly proves to be a problem.

It takes a few minutes for Crowley to realize that mixed in with the talk of the city, commerce, suggestions of trade, are suggestions of a more immediate and personal nature. Crowley is drawn into talking about himself, and slips into his story easily enough: a traveler most recently from Jerusalem among other places, here with a note of introduction from Herod Agrippa introducing him to the emperor (true), possibly with an interest in settling in Rome more long term and taking up civic duties (entirely untrue).

The senator—Markus Somethingoranother—is enraptured by this plan, immediately extols the virtues of Rome, pinnacle of civilization, calls upon Claudius to back him up. Invites Crowley to all sorts of sights and events, leans in closer. (The music is at a dizzying pace now, and Crowley can’t figure out why it’s so compelling.) Markus covers Crowley’s upper arm with his hand; Crowley is strongly tempted to swat him.

And so on, subtle little gestures and suggestions and touches growing more and more personal (and more difficult to push off) as the music swells. Crowley doesn’t bother to be polite in his refusals, but Markus is convinced he can be won over. By the time the final chord is played and a new tune begins he’s sitting close indeed, straddling the bench next to Crowley, one hand on the angel’s thigh and another touching his hair (shorter than it was in Jerusalem, but still much too long for a man {or currently man-shaped being} by Roman standards). “Like a woman’s!” he repeats for the fourth time, stroking it. The candlelight teases red highlights out of the brown.

Crowley, growing immensely tired of this distraction, lifts a hand and catches the senator’s wrist in a grip much, much stronger than his thin frame suggests possible. “Stop that,” he says, eyebrow raised. “Before I ask less nicely.”

*

A serpentine young man shoots Aziraphale a hot sideways glance over his shoulder; the sway of his hips and the tilt of his smile are familiar enough that Aziraphale’s pulse and breathing respond, quickening, tightening. He lets his own smile turn sly, shifts his lyre on his knee, and begins to play again—long, languorous phrases like caresses, chords that swell and trail into one another like an endless line of kisses along bared skin.

It’s at this moment that a servant, dressed in white and blue as if to suggest the clouds from which Jupiter hurls his thunderbolts [1], draws back a curtain at the other end of the room in order to bring around a pitcher of wine to the guests there. Aziraphale’s head turns reflexively, his attention caught by the movement and the flash of color, and then all at once he’s greeted by the sight of Crowley practically in a senator’s lap, long fingers closed around the man’s wrist, the fellow’s other hand on his thigh.

It’s as if Aziraphale himself has been struck by lightning. His hands go still; his heart seems to stop beating; his throat closes. An awful silence roars through his brain, his skin hot and cold at once.

*

The sudden cessation of music draws attention from most, who then follow Aziraphale’s gaze to the corner. The players themselves don’t notice. Markus’ eyes are wide, and he laughs, suddenly and boisterously (and not a little drunkenly), leaning forward to literally press his perceived advantage and take a kiss. Roman males set great store on who is active or passive when it comes to sexual congress, and it’s clear which side of the equation Markus Whoeverheis deems his right.

Crowley rolls his eyes, very obviously, and catches Markus’ other hand, lifting it off his leg, and pushes him back before he can get anywhere. “Down, boy,” he says dryly, his voice quiet but firm, the grip of his long fingers now tight enough to border on pain. “I said, hands _off_. I’m not interested in those games.”

There’s a sudden chuckle, followed by calm but carrying applause.

Caligula rises, still clapping, and crosses the room—which immediately becomes silent as even trysting pairs halt to look up and see what their emperor-god is doing. “Excellent,” he says, obviously well amused. “Excellent! And how interesting! Turning down a Roman senator? Most… visitors to our city… would not be so scrupulous, not when there was something to gain.”

Crowley, face impassive, looks up at Caligula. Their meeting a few days ago was brief and polite, an exchange of greetings from Herod that inspired an absentminded invitation to the banquet, forgotten almost as soon as it happened. Which is how Crowley’d wanted it. This much attention is not his goal. He shrugs. “He doesn’t have anything I want,” the angel says, eyebrow slightly raised. “And I’m not interested in giving him what he wants. Simple as that.”

Caligula laughs again, throwing his head back in mirth. Several of the more sycophantic types behind him join in, amused or pretending amusement at this apparent lack of greed or self-interest or… anything. “Extraordinary.” Caligula’s grin is wide and toothy, rather like a shark. He reaches out and stroke’s Crowley’s face, fingers grazing lightly down from cheek to chin. Crowley stays still, eyes locked on the emperor’s face. The angel does not smile. Caligula’s shark grin doesn’t change. “Virtue and strength combined… yes. You shall be my Diana.”

He waves a hand, and a few of his servants immediately walk forward. Caligula’s smile turns more smug, and it is obvious he is well-pleased with his inspiration. “Take him and dress him as the virgin goddess of the hunt,” he orders. “Then return him here to wait upon our pleasure.”

Crowley’s eyes go wide with incredulity. But being put in a costume, however ridiculous, isn’t going to harm him, and he has work to do here… so he stands, bows his head, and goes quietly. Only as the servants are guiding him past the bemused revelers does he finally see Aziraphale, the gold and silver lyre still in his hands. 

Crowley’s eyes open wider, and his heart skips a beat. There’s a brief flash of an astonished, relieved smile, _Oh thank the Lord, you’re here_ , followed immediately by an equally silent _What the hell is going on?_

And then he’s led on to another room, given white and silver robes and other accessories, and it’s very strongly suggested that he act the part of Diana of the Hunt with aplomb and good grace so that the emperor is pleased, if he would be so kind…

*

A sort of angry relief floods Aziraphale when Crowley pushes the senator away; in frozen silence he watches the exchange between the angel and the emperor. He can barely think, only observe, every sound filtering through a faint ringing in his ears.

Then Caligula orders Crowley dressed up for his pleasure, and as he’s led away they make eye contact. With a lurch his heart starts beating again.

As the guests begin to resume their interrupted conversations (or other activities), he spares a last glance at the amorous senator, and with it there’s a surge of demonic rage. Within an hour the man who’d dared to lay a hand on an angel will be feeling the effects of history’s most brutal hangover, which will last for an entire miserable week; in fact, he’ll be plagued with disproportionately terrible hangovers whenever he drinks for the rest of his life.

It may not be a measured response, but demons don’t do measured responses to insults, not even Aziraphale.

A moment later he’s aware of Caligula’s gaze drifting towards him, and as swiftly as he can he puts on the winning smile again, plucks a sweet chord on the strings of the lyre. His heart is still pounding frantically.

“Forgive my silence, Great Jupiter,” he says. “I was merely surprised to recognize my divine sister among your company.”

*

Caligula, bright and young and golden, turns his full attention on his lyrist. His smile is slow. “Yes,” he drawls, eyes resting heavily on Aziraphale. He walks back to his throne, gesturing for ‘Apollo’ to follow in his wake. “I noticed that you recognized her even before I did.”

There’s a weight to the words that might be a threat, a game, or nothing at all. Impossible to tell for certain. The emperor sits back in his throne, gilded and bedecked in royal purple. His skin is painted with gold designs, and small jewels are affixed here and there, so he glitters wherever he walks. But the glint in his eyes is sharper yet.

Even so, as he sits his smile is disarming. “But of course you would, being her twin and opposite. Is that not so, Apollo?” He raises an eyebrow, inviting Aziraphale to share the jest. If it is a jest.

*

By now he knows Caligula’s tone well enough to know that he must tread very carefully here. The emperor’s games are the most dangerous in Rome. Aziraphale’s seen what happens to jokesters whose attempts at levity displease this would-be god. While he knows he could simply grow his tongue back should Caligula decide to have it torn out, he’d really rather not go through the entire process at all.

But here, as everywhere else he goes, Aziraphale presents himself as a harmless soul with a big imagination and no ambition. He’s an early version of what will be called, many centuries later, an _idea guy_ —the sort who only suggests, who lays the foundations of thoughts for others to build upon. Here he’s renowned for his silver tongue: though he never sings, he can often lighten the mood of a room with a seemingly casual remark.

“Indeed. And you, Lord Jupiter, are the only ruler who can boast of having both the sun and moon attend upon you at court,” he says smoothly, punctuating the statement with a bright and cheerful chord. “A pity she was revealed so soon—we might have seen her turn her would-be paramour into a stag, like Actaeon.”

This prompts ripples of laughter; Senator Markus Whateverhisnamemightbe looks a touch green.

*

Caligula laughs as intended, as does the rest of the room, and the looming sense of threat ebbs away as they trade witticisms until Caligula waves a hand for the music and feasting to continue. (Markus maintains his green colour as hangover catches up with him several hours early, and he leaves soon after to spend a week in bed having fitful dreams of being chased and eaten by wild dogs. [2])

In another room Crowley allows himself to be dressed and adorned, and goes along with the process willingly enough, though he asks a good many questions. Does the emperor often do this, pick a person at random and make a god of them? Are there others? Who was the man with the lyre back there? Can they leave his hair alone, please?

The answers are, in their shortened versions: 1) When he’s in the mood, 2) There have been, some are still here and others aren’t, best not to ask about the latter, 3) An exquisitely talented musician who seems to amuse the emperor, been here a few weeks now, everyone just calls him Apollo these days as it pleases Caligula, and 4) No, now hold still.

Crowley is returned perhaps an hour later, and when he is, he’s been transformed.

He’s been given a woman’s long, sleeveless stola, gathered at the waist and falling to his feet, in pristine white embroidered with silver thread. His hair is loose and falls past his shoulders, but has been encased in delicate silver chains and hair clips. His eyelids and lips are anointed with silver paint. A crescent moon diadem decorates his forehead, and a larger crescent pendant hangs around his neck. Fingers and toes alike have been decorated with silver rings, and silver bracelets adorn his ankles and wrists.

Crowley enjoys dressing up. Human fashions amuse him, and it’s fun to play with his clothing now and then. This, however, feels more than a little ridiculous. He glances at Aziraphale as he's lead back into the room, and the flash of his eyes speaks of annoyance. An angel, treated as a plaything! Anyone else would find it insulting. Even to Crowley it’s irritating, and he already hates the idea of having to report it to Gabriel. He wouldn’t blame Aziraphale at all for laughing. Though it’s a little comforting that Aziraphale doesn’t.

Absurd or not, he’s led back to Caligula for inspection. He doesn’t lower his eyes demurely as a virgin goddess probably should and someone more sycophantic would, however. Instead he meets the emperor’s gaze directly, with a raised eyebrow and stubborn set to his jaw. “Does this meet with your approval?” he asks bluntly, not adding the ‘Lord Jupiter’ even though he was specifically told to do so. Just because he’s been costumed like a doll for Caligula to play with like an overgrown toy doesn’t mean he’ll go along with it meekly.

A few nearby courtiers gasp at this apparent discourtesy, but Caligula laughs again, obviously amused. “It does, bold Diana,” he says smoothly, standing and extending a hand to Crowley, who after a moment’s pause takes it, not seeing what else to do. “Come. I will introduce you to my worshippers. And if any offend you, you need but say the word, and we shall call for your hounds to rend them limb from limb.” With the barest glance he commands that ‘Apollo’ should go on playing, and then begins a circuit of the room, Crowley on his arm.

Crowley realizes gloomily that it will take another hour, or maybe two, before he has any chance of conversation with Aziraphale, observed or unobserved. With a grimace he settles in for a long wait and a lot of small talk. At least if he’s asked how he’s enjoying the party, he can say he’d prefer to be off in the woods somewhere and get away with it. Normally that wouldn’t be his first choice but just now Crowley would definitely take any moonlit glade over this room.

Except in that Aziraphale is here.

*

He barely hears the music he’s playing, thoughts buzzing and swirling even though both Crowley and the unfortunate senator have disappeared from sight. Caligula’s whims are sudden, and these days he seems to spend most of his time balanced on a knife’s edge between mirth and rage. A single ill-timed remark can result in torture or worse.

Aziraphale knows that, as an angel, Crowley can take care of himself. But there’s knowing and then there’s seeing him look a very dangerous man in the eye and speak more plainly than anyone at court has dared to do in months... and the unmistakable glint of lust in Caligula’s eyes seems to have wrought pure havoc in Aziraphale’s corporeal form. His skin is hot and prickling as if he’s about to start sweating; his heart bounces in his chest, tight throat gone dry.

The young man who’d been making eyes at Aziraphale drifts closer, watching his hands move on the lyre. Aziraphale barely takes notice of him this time; all he can think is, _I have to see him, have to warn him or give him a hand, have to speak to him..._

There’s a sigh of wonder and a smattering of applause from the company as Diana, the goddess of the hunt, pads in on bare feet, and it’s a miracle Aziraphale manages to keep playing without mangling the tune.

They’ve dressed him as the moon, but painted and adorned in silver he glitters like the stars he’s so proud of, reflecting back the light of the candles and torches in the room. A great silver crescent shines at the base of his slender throat, and it takes every iota of discipline Aziraphale’s accumulated over four thousand years not to stare, not to close his eyes and imagine how warm the skin beneath it must be.

He can’t stare. If someone notices and tells Caligula—or, worse, if Caligula himself sees his current favorite musician ogling his latest fascination—there may be consequences for them both.

(In his heart, Aziraphale knows that should the emperor dare even a single kiss, uninvited or otherwise, he’ll find the nearest sharp object and ram it between Caligula’s ribs. He’s never murdered a human before, but he would have no compunction about doing it under these circumstances.)

So for the moment he buckles down to one of the most challenging tasks known to any thinking being: trying to act normal.

He’s not a bad actor at this point in his life, and he’s certainly learned how to charm people into and out of a lot of things. If he can’t risk looking directly at Crowley, he can at least focus on someone slightly closer to hand. Every time he’s tempted to look towards the angel, he forces himself instead to look over at the fellow who’s been silently flirting with him, imagining silver on his lips.

*

Crowley’s known a number of long hours in his lifetime. This one shouldn’t drag on as interminably as it does. That everyone around him is intimidated, fascinated by, lusting after, envious of, and the Almighty knows what else both Caligula and to a lesser degree Crowley himself is impossible to miss, but none of it affects him—a fact which he doesn’t hide, and which Caligula himself seems to find amusing. So Crowley lets his faint boredom show, shows interest only in anyone with a spark of actual goodness or kindness to demonstrate, tries to encourage those sparks, and makes a point of being unimpressed by any of the numerous attempts to shock him. This party is a cesspit of sin, but for the most part the people here are merely wallowing in their own greed. It’s distasteful, but could be worse.

(He hasn’t forgotten Sodom. He’ll never forget Sodom.)

Caligula even interrupts couples and triads mid-coitus to bring Crowley to their attention, and they laugh and slyly invite both to join in. Each time Caligula gives Crowley a speculative look, and once even asks _Would you grace them with your touch, Diana?_ Crowley frowns and shakes his head, _It would not be fitting_ , an answer more true than any of them can realize. The irony of it all isn’t lost on him. These people playing at divinity, with an actual agent of the Divine walking among them...

And an agent of the Infernal, who sits in the middle of the room playing sweet music.

Crowley’s never had an opportunity hear Aziraphale play before, aside from the brief melody on the flute eight years ago. He knew the demon could—that much he gleaned long ago, from the children after the Flood and from other small things dropped over the years. But mastery like this he didn’t expect. It’s another small piece of the puzzle that is Aziraphale, or perhaps a large piece, and Crowley adds it to his collection. The music is beautiful, and he wishes fervently that it was just the two of them somewhere else, Aziraphale playing and Crowley listening and nothing else going on.

But they both have work to do. Crowley doesn’t know what Aziraphale’s purpose in being here is—it’s not as though Caligula can be encouraged to be more debauched, after all—but he knows he’d better find out.

He hopes they won’t be forced to actually work at cross-purposes for the first time. It’s inevitable they will someday, no doubt, but...they’ve avoided it this long, surely they can get away with things a little longer...

The evening drags on.

Crowley is re-introduced to Claudius, and is careful to speak of Caligula’s uncle with passing respect but not true admiration. He can’t bring himself to join in on Caligula’s gibes at his uncle’s expense, and gently points out that the King of the Gods should treat those lesser than he with more graciousness, and since everyone is less than he it follows he should be gracious to all. Claudius’ eyes are wide and alarmed at that. Caligula’s narrow briefly. Crowley meets both gazes without fear, unfazed.

Then that sharp, narrow smile again, and finally, _finally_ Caligula leads him to Aziraphale. “Of course, your divine brother you must know well indeed,” he says, eyes glinting.

“Who does not know the sun?” Crowley says, sensing a test or trap of some sort. He tries to be restrained, but a little true warmth sneaks into his smile as he looks at Aziraphale. The demon is tense and disturbed, has been all evening, and it’s been worrying Crowley a good deal. What can possibly be bothering him so much? This isn't exactly fun, but neither of _them_ is in any danger here. Not really.

Well, he can’t reach out and clasp Aziraphale’s shoulder comfortingly as he has in the past, but he can at least play along a little more. Though if this party goes on too much longer he’ll put the whole blessed company to sleep if that’s what it takes to get out of it. “Hail and well met, Apollo,” Crowley says. “I’m honored by your music. No god or goddess could ask for better.” That much, at least, is certainly true, and Crowley’s eyes linger on the lyre—or perhaps on the hands that rest on the strings. A faint shifting of weight next to him recalls Crowley’s attention, and he hastily adds, “I’m glad divine Jupiter has blessed you with his patronage and seen fit to share your gifts with us.”

*

Though his hands, well-accustomed to their work by now, play a phrase as soft as moonlight, Aziraphale’s pulse and thoughts are racing. Caligula is watching for something between the two of them, has some sort of test in mind. As good as Aziraphale’s become at reading humans he often struggles to predict the emperor’s whims.

“And I am glad to play at the pleasure of our divine lord,” he replies, smiling up at Crowley, trying not to let any of his questions or his concern show, carefully avoiding the sight of Caligula’s hand on Crowley’s arm.

“A rather formal way to greet your celestial sister, don’t you think?”

There’s a sharp edge to Caligula’s teasing tone; it sends a chill across the back of Aziraphale’s neck. “My lord?”

“Pretty words are well and good, but no man in all the Empire greets his sister without a kiss.”

_Bloody Heaven, there it is._

“Or does bright Apollo have less love for his sister than mortal men do for theirs?” Caligula asks, eyes flashing.

Aziraphale shifts the lyre on his knee, still playing a tune far calmer than the swirl of his own thoughts. “My fair sister flees the kisses of mortal men and gods alike,” he says swiftly, and somehow he manages to summon up a little laughter. “I would not bid her stay and endure mine, lest she turn the stars to hounds to chase me from my post here.”

*

If pressed to explain what’s making this conversation so strained and odd, Crowley would have trouble putting his finger on any tangible thing. It’s not just that he and Aziraphale are, for the moment, players in a madman’s game. It’s more as though numerous other conversations are happening in silence all at once, and he’s not sure he’s hearing them correctly. Any of them. That it’s all underlaid by music of soft, aching sweetness (why does it sound familiar? He’s heard it somewhere before, something like it...) only adds to the unreality of it all.

Crowley shrugs. His shoulders feel very bare in the stola, without so much as the customary shawl Roman women usually wear, but there are designs painted on his arms as well as his face. He has to give Caligula’s household credit: they’re prepared, creative, and quick to think on their feet. Crowley wishes he felt as capable at the moment. “‘Endure’ is too harsh a term,” he says, wishing for Aziraphale’s silver tongue. This sort of playacting is really not his strong point. “But Diana is sworn to chastity and the hunt, and well known to have little interest in anything else, even her own kin. Is that not so?” He looks at Caligula as he asks the question, turning it back on him.

The emperor’s eyes burn. When he smiles it is slow and poisonous. “Perhaps,” he says. “But I am Jupiter, ruler of the sky and _paterfamilias_ to you both, and my wishes are treated as commands even by the gods themselves. So I tell you: greet each other as brother and sister should, and let me see what affection there is between you.”

*

There’s no point in refusing. Aziraphale has seen what happens to those who refuse to play Caligula’s games; it’s not at all pretty. And as good as he’s become at deflecting the man’s wrath and managing his mood swings, it can be exhausting trying to talk himself out of whatever whim has possessed the emperor’s imagination.

So he smiles, as innocently as he can manage, and sets his lyre aside for a moment in order to stand.

“Sweet sister: well met, and welcome to our father’s court.”

He’s neither overly quick nor overly deliberate as he leans over to kiss each of Crowley’s cheeks once, as he’s seen human siblings do. His face betrays nothing of the way his heart rattles and leaps, of the yearning that rages in him even now. His hands don’t tremble, but his soul does, if only for a moment.

*

There’s no echo of the heart-stopping moment when Aziraphale caressed his cheek eight years ago, not for Crowley. It’s too perfunctory, too public, and too playacting. He scrunches his nose up a little. “I’m not sweet,” he points out. “Pretty sure Diana’s not either.”

“Are you not Diana?” Caligula asks softly, menace still in his tone. “Greet your brother, moon goddess.”

Crowley turns away before rolling his eyes a little and places his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, kisses his left cheek, neither overly casual nor too formal. His mouth is soft, and his hands rest easily on the demon’s frame. “Then hail to my dear brother.” Then a kiss on the right cheek, as light as the first.

Then he lets go, looks back to Caligula. “Are you satisfied, Sky Lord?” Try as he might, Crowley can’t keep the sardonic edge out of his voice.

“Nearly.” Caligula reaches up a hand—Crowley is taller than he is, even barefoot—and traces his finger along a strand of hair that’s fallen free of the silver clips, to the side of Crowley’s face. “Nearly. But you have offered no similar sign of affection to me, daughter.”

Crowley raises both eyebrows. “And risk Juno’s wrath?” he says in mock-horror. By his side he makes a small, surreptitious gesture with one hand, like pulling a thread downwards. “I would not dare offend the goddess so.”

As though summoned (which she more or less was), Caligula’s wife Milonia Caesonia rouses from her slumber on the other side of the room. She wears nothing at all, but walks with unselfconscious grace towards the trio and drapes herself on her husband’s chest, whispers something in his ear, laughs seductively.

*

From the gentle dampness Crowley’s kisses leave on his cheeks he can tell a little of the silver paint has transferred from “Diana’s” skin to his own. They mean nothing to the angel, he can tell, but they nearly brand his nerves; it’s a miracle his lungs keep working.

Time seems to collapse in on itself when Caligula demands a kiss from Crowley.

For several terrible moments his vision mists with red at the edges. Rage chokes his throat shut; every inch of him is suddenly fever-hot, the silver marks on his cheeks burning like coals pressed into his skin. The pupils of his sky-blue eyes blow wide; he feels his back tense like the body of a cat about to strike.

Then there’s the faintest whisper of divine power, and Caligula’s wife saunters sleepily towards him, drapes herself along his side and chest invitingly. Aziraphale makes himself let out a slow, slow breath.

“Hail our queen and our loving father.” He’s almost shocked that his voice comes out steady, that the anger ebbs from its killing boil.

A warm touch steals along his shoulder, and he nearly jumps—it’s the man he’s been flirting with all evening, venturing a first caress as he passes by. It takes him a second to recover, to summon up a broad and mischievous smile.

*

These kisses don’t count for anything, no more than a handshake. They happen under duress of a sort, not in private. Not in a situation that matters. They aren’t from Crowley to Aziraphale, or vice-versa. They’re from Diana to Apollo at the behest of a mad emperor playing games. What worth does that have?

A chance to talk to Aziraphale without being overheard, that’s worth far more. Inwardly Crowley sighs with relief as Caligula’s eyes flicker between the two of them, as some tension fades when a random partygoer walks behind Aziraphale and receives a bright smile. The empress splays a hand over Caligula’s chest and whispers in his ear again, and his body becomes less stiff and more pliant. He places a finger under Crowley’s chin, lifts it a little. (Or tries; Crowley’s chin proves surprisingly immobile.) “No more would I risk Juno’s wrath, and it seems she requires the god’s attention,” he says, with a sudden return of his own wickedly pleased smile. “But stay, Diana. I would speak with you more before the night is done.”

With that he lets himself be led away, and Crowley sighs more audibly, rubs the bridge of his nose as though he has a headache. He and Aziraphale are standing next to a comfortable bench covered with a large velvet cushion of red and gold; Crowley sits on it and looks up at Aziraphale. That he expects—or at least hopes—Aziraphale will sit next to him is evident. There’s still another man standing behind Aziraphale, hand on his shoulder. It’s a very touchy-feely room, in fact. So because there’s someone else listening, Crowley manages to tone down his real reaction. “Well. That was… something.” His tone clearly states _fucked if I know what, but definitely something._

*

Aziraphale lets out another slow breath, forces his shoulders to relax and his hands to unclench at his sides. Both the flirtatious young man and the angel give him an expectant look, and he finds himself having to make a quick decision.

He takes a moment to lean over and whisper in his suitor’s ear, _come find me later,_ and the man smiles and moves off to rejoin the party, hips swaying.

Relief pours down his back as he sinks onto the couch next to Crowley; it’s pure reflex that makes him reach for his lyre and pull it back into his lap.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters, fiddling with the pegs and plucking out a few phrases just to keep his hands busy. “If I’d known you were in town I’d have warned you.”

He’s not worried about being overheard and reported to the emperor; he’s long since learned tricks both mundane and miraculous to keep ambitious humans from hearing anything he wants to keep truly private. And Hell doesn’t listen too closely to individual agents, these days, not while it attempts to retool its strategies to avoid another Harrowing.

*

When Aziraphale joins him on the bench, Crowley’s face blooms into its first real smile of the evening, possibly his first full smile in eight years. “If I had known you were in town, I’d have looked for you before I came here.” He can’t reach out and touch Aziraphale, not even with the sort of casual greeting exchanged between friends, not while there still might be people watching them. [3] But he rests his hand on the cushion between them at an angle that’s as close as he can get without actually reaching. “I’m happy to see you, even in these bizarre circumstances. And I was warned, but…” Crowley shrugs. “You know how it is.” Work calls and they answer, like it or not.

Crowley lifts his free hand to his mouth. The silver paint makes his lips feel and taste odd. “I admit I didn’t expect any of… _this_. Though it’s worth it to have a chance to hear you play for a while.” He smiles again, smaller and softer but no less affection-bright, watching Aziraphale’s skilled fingers plucking at the strings.

*

Though he’s calming down now, Aziraphale’s pulse still skips and struggles to right itself when Crowley says _it’s worth it_. The ridiculous costume, perhaps, but all this other debauchery, presided over by an unstable man who’s taken a sudden interest in him... he knows the angel is kind, and stronger than he looks, but Aziraphale can’t stop thinking of this place as terribly dangerous.

(Never mind that Aziraphale is already resolved to face any sort of danger to protect the angel from Caligula, with no thought of reward but seeing Crowley unharmed. That’s different. Obviously.)

“Thank you,” he says at last. He settles into a song that’s cheerful but not raucous, letting his hands move through patterns he’s long since mastered. “Listen—I do want to talk to you, but not here. Can you meet up tomorrow? I’ve got a villa to myself at the moment, and I can keep our friend over there busy for the rest of the night if need be.”

*

The hesitation and the return of tension don’t go unmissed. Crowley doesn’t frown, but he does look more serious. He’d like to ask right now what’s wrong, what can be worrying Aziraphale so much.

But this is a terrible place for any sort of important conversation, it’s true. He can arrange to not be overheard, and has, knows Aziraphale has almost certainly done the same. But that’s not at all the same as privacy, and the situation is in no way stable. Nothing about the palace or the court is. It doesn’t take supernatural intuition to know that.

Regretfully, Crowley nods. “That’d probably be better. Don’t worry about keeping him occupied, though, that’s taken care of for a few hours. Until tomorrow if we’re lucky.” He smiles again, wistful. “But… let me just listen to you play for a bit before I get back to work? Please? If you’re not busy.”

*

Something in Crowley’s tone, paired with that sweet little smile, punches straight through Aziraphale’s defenses. Logically he knows that Caligula might catch sight of them and cause trouble, but...

They’ve never really discussed music, he realizes. It’s not that he’s kept it secret, they’ve just had other things to talk about when they’ve met up. And Crowley’s only heard him play once, for Yeshua; even if the circumstances now are perilous, they’re far less sad.

Aziraphale smiles back. He can’t help it.

“Of course.” He punctuates the statement with a rising arpeggio; for just a moment he lets his smile turn wry. “Any requests, fair Diana?”

*

Caligula is busy just now. Very busy. And besides, all Crowley is doing is sitting and listening. No touching, and soon not even talking. Just listening.

Aziraphale’s real smile is a beautiful thing, much better than the genial mask he wore for the emperor a few minutes ago, stiff with sardonic, false amusement. The real thing warms Crowley all over.

The tease, however, earns a chuckle and a rueful shake of the head. “Don’t _you_ start!” Crowley chides. “I’m neither and you know it, so no teasing. Now, play something you’ve written? Anything.”

*

Something he’s written? He remembers every song he’s ever played, but it’s hard to think of himself as having _written_ any of them. They just seem to flow up from some deep place inside him, some place that has never stopped echoing with song even though he no longer has the voice for it.

And for thousands of years there has been a song spinning itself into being in his soul, one he can’t help thinking about at odd moments when he’s reminded of a black-winged angel. It’ll still be a work in progress for centuries to come, he can already tell, but...

“If you insist,” he says, and lets the chord he just played fade into silence before he begins again.

Though he, as its creator, is painfully aware of its flaws, it is a music unlike anything the mortals in the room have heard before. It hangs in the air like perfume, sweet and bright and full of longing—and while there’s an undercurrent of desire in it, it’s unmistakably more a love song than anything else.

The ambient sighs of pleasure grow warmer; the mood of the room softens pleasantly.

*

Crowley would have pointed out that it was a polite request, not a requirement. But then Aziraphale starts playing, and everything else stops.

He’s heard a lot of music over the millennia, sought it out, loved it in all its forms. He known for millennia he’ll never again hear anything to match how he felt when listening to lost Israfel’s song, but that doesn’t mean other songs aren’t beautiful and worthy. Just different. He doesn’t really rank them, just enjoys them all, the same way he enjoys both a sunrise and a candle flame.

This eclipses everything, even the shining memory he’s carried with him since before Eden.

It’s simple, yes; there’s only so much you can do with only a lyre. But there’s an exquisite sweetness to it, a longing; it calls to Crowley, it’s familiar. When he tries to put his finger on why all he can think of is a moment in a night garden, a soft brush of fingers on his cheek, the feather touch of a kiss against his palm.

There are tears in his eyes, and one slides down his face, breaking the lines of silver. He doesn’t notice. He’s forgotten everything except watching Aziraphale play.

*

Although Aziraphale can’t shake the awareness of Crowley sitting next to him, or of where they are, it’s surprisingly easy to give himself over to the warmth of the song he’s playing. And though he’s woven temptations into countless songs before, this one doesn’t explicitly beckon—merely yearns.

(If he could, he’d make the entire city ring with it, would move the very stones of streets and houses to sing his love. He’s known for a long time that his own feelings are far too deep for any single human instrument or voice to encompass, no matter how sweetly he plays; he knows that if by some miracle he could regain even a fragment of his angelic voice again he would use it to sing out this praise and adoration until he was too hoarse to make another sound. For now, though, the sensation of the lyre humming under his hands as he draws the tune from it is comforting in a rather human way. The song may not be what he wants it to be, but he still enjoys playing it.)

When he comes to the end of what he’s already composed he improvises a little phrase to flow back into the main melody, a few chords he can play without really thinking about them [4]. Aziraphale turns a little, intending to make some faintly apologetic remark about how it’s not finished—

—and his hands very nearly go still again when he sees that bright tear glittering on Crowley’s cheek, making its slow way through the silver patterns painted there.

A cold coil of fear constricts around his heart.

“I’m sorry,” he says, nearly stammering. “I didn’t mean—”

*

Aziraphale suddenly looks stricken, and Crowley shakes his head at once. “No! No, that was—” Oh, damn, he’s actually crying, isn’t he? Of all the ridiculous things. He rubs his face with the back of his hand, smearing some of the silver paint, which decidedly does not help. Crowley smiles, a little helplessly, and shakes his head again. “No, that was—” He takes a breath. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. Ever. Even better than—”

He takes another breath, shakes his head a third time. It’s not that he’s keeping how much he missed Israfel’s music a secret, it’s just that it happened such a long time ago and so much has changed since then. And this is a terrible place and time for any serious conversation, more so for talking about such completely un-mortal things. The banality of the party is even more intrusive than it was.

This is going to haunt him, and it’s given him a few things to think about, but for the moment there’s not much Crowley can say. Not here. “It was beautiful,” he repeats quietly, looking at Aziraphale, utterly sincere. “Thank you.”

*

If it were only the two of them on some quiet hillside somewhere, Aziraphale knows he wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to set his lyre aside and reach out to touch the angel... or perhaps he’d give in to the equally strong temptation to flee, to find somewhere he could curl up in an embarrassed little ball of cat and reproach himself for being so bloody obvious.

But he’s not in a position to act on either temptation, not with the awareness of where he is and what else is going on around them so unavoidable. So instead he swallows, and manages to summon up a smile, and lets his hands continue their slow chord progression.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says. He can’t quite bring himself to look straight at Crowley, as if the angel’s sincerity might burn him somehow, like looking directly into the sun. “It’s not finished, but… I’ll play it again for you when it is, someday.”

He’s not sure why he’s still talking; his throat feels dry and tight, and he’s definitely feeling the impulse to find someplace to hide.

*

If it were only the two of them, Crowley would ask Aziraphale not to stop, to play it again or play something else, to keep playing until morning, or maybe until all the stars fall out of the sky. Assuming he could get coherent words out at all. He feels rather as though he’s been hit by a thunderbolt.

“—Please,” he manages. “I’d like that.” He can’t stop staring, watching as the demon fiddles with lyre strings, playing melodic chords apparently at random. How can Aziraphale just sit there, when he has music like _that_ within him?

 _How did you Fall, when there is so much kindness and beauty within you?_ It’s a question he’s wondered about before, many times, and never asked.

Crowley wants very badly to be somewhere else. Somewhere quiet, where he can think for a while. Unfortunately he probably can’t leave entirely, not without causing trouble he’d have to undo later. “I should… get back to work,” he says after an awkward silence. “Figure out what to do about this whole Diana thing. So, uh.” He reaches up and scratches the back of his neck. “Tomorrow, you said? Where’s your villa?”

*

“A little south of the palace, at the foot of the Palatine Hill.” Close enough to serve at the emperor’s pleasure at a moment’s notice, but quiet enough for his liking, with plenty of gardens. Even if they’re less impressive in winter, as they are now. “There’s a lyre painted above the door. _Not_ my idea,” he hastens to add, his mouth twisting wryly.

A servant with a faintly shy and apologetic expression makes his way over to the couch where they’re seated, clears his throat to get their attention.

“The magnificent Lord Jupiter commends Apollo on his lovely music,” the man says, offering Aziraphale a slight smile, “and he wishes for something lively next, to keep everyone’s spirits glad.”

Of course. Something more fun as background for his debauchery.

“As His Magnificence wishes,” Aziraphale says smoothly, but as soon as the servant has gone a flicker of weariness crosses his face. “Probably better see if he’s got any requests. I’ll see you tomorrow, let’s say around noon?”

*

Crowley smiles a little at the description of the door, and refrains from pointing out how appropriate the decoration is, Aziraphale’s idea or not.

The servant speaks and Aziraphale answers, and it’s clear this too-brief meeting is done. “That should be fine.” Crowley hesitates a little, but risks reaching out and squeezing Aziraphale’s shoulder. A friendly gesture, one that should be nothing, not when compared to other things happening in the room. He hopes. But he can’t help it. “Don’t let him overwork you. You look exhausted.”

Claudius is signalling to him from across the room, now accompanied by his young, beautiful wife, who clearly wants a word. Crowley sighs and stands up, nodding towards his unwitting charge to indicate he’s on his way. “Til tomorrow, then.”

*

Aziraphale nods, his smile still warm and genuine for a moment, and then his gaze slides away from Crowley and it’s as if a shutter falls over him. Or perhaps as if a wall goes up around him. It’s hard to say, and anyway he’s lost among the crowd within seconds.

When Crowley asks Messalina what she knows about the emperor’s new musician, she laughingly confesses she doesn’t know much, beyond what everyone who hears him knows immediately—that he is truly gifted, whether he plays lyre or flute or even simply recites poetry.

What she’s _heard_ , though, well. Those sorts of rumors might scorch the ears of a maiden goddess.

There is, as it turns out, a great deal of gossip about bright Apollo at Caligula’s court. He seems to have no real ambition towards power, only pleasure; he’s had some mischievous ideas, like dressing people up as gods and goddesses at parties, and he’s quite the wit.

He is also, many people attest with sly smiles or wide eyes, quite the lover.

 _Up for anything,_ they tell him, some admiringly and some disdainfully. _Even using his mouth_ , which here and now is considered especially vulgar and decadent. _Men and women alike,_ including the emperor, or so it’s rumored. A few of the people Crowley talks to have themselves bedded Apollo, or at least they claim to; they describe his kisses as heavenly. Though he doesn’t sing, has never sung at court, his silver tongue is well-renowned: apparently more than once a husband or wife has come home to find the musician in bed with their spouse, and ended up tempted in with them. A married couple boast laughingly of both having had him on the same night, separately and then together.

Some of the stories are quite obviously exaggerated—they mostly involve animals and sinister sex magic—but if even a fraction of the things Crowley hears that night are true, Apollo has fucked his way through half of Roman high society.

*

It saddens Crowley a little more to see all that warmth inside Aziraphale suddenly hidden behind protective barriers. The falseness of it is almost painful, and he worries about what might be happening behind the mask.

Not that he blames the demon at all. Those barriers are probably useful, especially on occasions like this; Crowley rather wishes he had some of his own. But he’s always worn his emotions on his sleeve. He doesn’t seem to know how to stop. He can hide them a little, maybe, rein them in, disguise them as other things, but not block them off completely.

He spends the rest of the party wishing he could.

It becomes a game, almost, seeing who’s envious of Caligula’s sudden new favorite as opposed to who’s currying favor, who hopes Crowley—now suddenly and entirely reluctantly a political figure—can turn his newfound status to some gain. Crowley’s lack of ambition and apparent lack of desire to join in all the excess is noted, sometimes with amusement or even approval, sometimes with derision. A few kinder souls warn him to be careful, as the emperor is notoriously mercurial in his tastes. A few more spiteful souls warn him of the same thing, in the same words.

A few have noticed that Diana and Apollo seem to know each other better than they’ve let on.

Crowley and Aziraphale have shared stories of what they get up to when they’re in different places several times before, but the ones they tell are usually aimed at amusing each other. Seeing Aziraphale through human eyes is a very different experience. It could even be called enlightening, if it weren’t so difficult to hear.

Crowley listens to all of it quietly and calmly and doesn’t rise to any barbs or jests, as even-tempered as if he really were Diana and indifferent to the love affairs of others. However numerous.

He catches sight of Aziraphale sometimes as the night goes on, usually playing the lyre or flute, sometimes talking with someone or another, that false smile curling his lips and not reaching his eyes. There’s a particular young man with swaying hips and mischievous eyes who lurks near and sometimes strokes Apollo’s shoulders or back, and it doesn’t take the gossip around him to see what’s wanted, even expected. Encouraged, perhaps. 

And why not? Everyone else around is indulging in such proclivities, and enjoying them. Humans are hot-blooded, always have been. Demons also, it seems.

Why not?

It’s astonishing, Crowley thinks absently, strangely detached from everything around him, how isolated it’s possible to feel while in a crowded banquet hall.

He stays a few more hours, doing his job, learning about the court and Claudius and Caligula, the state of Roman politics and how they’re shifting, where the weak points are. He’s not bad at it. He knows how to listen and put puzzle pieces together, and can glean a lot from what people say and how they say it. Heaven wants Claudius to be the next emperor, and before much time has passed. The latter part won’t be difficult, Caligula is well on his way to self-destruction without Crowley needing to do a thing. The former part will be more tricky, but he has ideas, and sets a few things in motion between bouts of being told about what Divine Jupiter does with his chosen pets, or what Divine Apollo can do with his hands aside from making music to mend and rouse and break the heart.

Caligula ordered Diana to stay, but a few more hours is all Crowley can stand. Fortunately by the time he takes his leave the emperor has been thoroughly ravished by his wife and is feeling more genial or at least exhausted, and he lets Crowley off with no more than a promise to return the next night ‘in her moonlit radiance’.

Crowley looks for Aziraphale before he goes, but isn’t surprised to not see him. Or to realize that the young man and his hips are conspicuously absent also.

As soon as he’s outside the palace he snaps his fingers to vanish all his borrowed, misbegotten finery, and walks until he’s outside the city. It’s a cold night, but he doesn’t return to the room he’s renting down in the city. Instead he summons up warmer clothes and spends the rest of the night and part of the morning lying on the grass, looking up at the stars as he once did on a hill outside of Bethlehem, thinking, and thinking, and thinking, with the plaintive sound of a lyre echoing in his ears.

  


* * *

  


1. The costumes are in fact one of Aziraphale’s few actual suggestions. After all, it’s just ridiculous enough to be highly entertaining.↩

2. Markus cannot identify the odd, jaunty music that accompanies these horrific dreams, but years later the tune will become known as the Benny Hill theme.↩

3. That his smile is a gigantic neon sign screaming “I’M EXTREMELY HAPPY TO SEE THIS PERSON” does not occur to Crowley, for reasons that have little to do with the fact that neon signs have not yet been invented.↩

4. Centuries from now, Aziraphale will nearly rain demonic blessings on the musicians who invent and illegally propagate lead sheets for popular songs. As anyone with a guitar fake book can tell you, having enough information to improvise your way through a song—or vamp if someone else decides it’s time for an unplanned solo—can be a lifesaver.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Oh my heavens so many notes, where to even begin...
> 
> Caligula did not officially go by the name Caligula. This was a childhood nickname meaning 'little soldier's boot.' Yes, one of the most notorious Roman emperors is now remembered as 'Booties'. He was not fond of it. His given name was Gaius Julius Caesar, but that's longer to type and this was easier. Also, funny. ;) Whether he was actually as mad and whimsical as he's usually said to be is a bit in question as a well-known method of Roman politics of discrediting someone was to portray them as insane and/or prone to sexual excess, which at the time was associated with poor governance. But there are numerous historical accounts in agreement and hoo boy do they have stories to tell.
> 
> Claudius fascinates me, probably because I've seen _I, Claudius_ a few too many times and took it too much to heart. ;) More on him later, but among other things he's eventually responsible for Roman expansion into Britannia. It amuses me to think that even this far back the Almighty was directing things so that eventually, almost two thousand years after this point, a place called Tadfield will exist for the Antichrist to grow up in. Though Heaven no doubt thinks it has other reasons for what it's doing. ;) 
> 
> Crowley is male-presenting-ish at this point, so even though Caligula's dressed him as a female goddess he keeps his male pronouns, as opposed to times in the past when he's chosen to be female-presenting or other and used different pronouns. All Your Genders Are Belong to Crowley, including sometimes none of them.
> 
> Finally WE HAVE MORE FANART!!!! AAAAHHHH! Zumofungi has drawn some amazing things for the first few chapters, the latest being the picnic scene outside of Babel. Really worth going back and seeing, I promise you. <3
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for your patience with the amount of time between chapters, and for all comments and kudos we've been given. These are scary and distracting times and if we've brought you any pleasant moments, know that you've given us some in return by letting us know. <3 
> 
> Take care of each other, be kind, stay as safe as you can. - Ashfae"
> 
> "Hey all! Thanks for your patience during this tough time. We hope the story is providing you a little boost in this time of weirdness, the way it is for us, and we're glad you're sticking around even if Pestilence is on an out-of-retirement bender.
> 
> We know orgies weren't actually as common in the ancient Roman Empire as is generally believed (much of the "evidence" for them comes from Pompeii, which was kind of the Roman equivalent of Las Vegas--a serious party town). Think of the Unusual Strings universe as a heightened reality, where some historical misconceptions were just history. (Though there is ample evidence to suggest that oral sex was in fact considered kinky, decadent, and somewhat shameful. Even by Catullus, who was turbo horny!)
> 
> Stay safe out there! Remember, the first verse of "We Will Rock You" is 20 seconds long, perfect hand-washing music. -Goose"
> 
> Ashfae: [quietly wonders if Goose originally wrote the name of a different song there but it became something by Queen after being left in the Google Drive file for too long...]


	13. Rome, January 23rd, AD 41 (Afternoon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an angel and demon have lunch, come to an Arrangement, and dare to eat a peach. (Alas, not a euphemism)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regular tagging schedule? What's that again? Sure sounds nice. We should get one of those. In the meantime, have this. No content warnings apply, I don't think. =)

In the weeks and months to come, people will brag about having been at these few parties where both Diana and Apollo were in attendance, when the musician’s lyre seemed to sing like a god’s indeed. He’s charming whenever he’s spoken to, and the songs that flow from his lyre that night inspire quite a few imaginations to lustful acts.

But his thoughts, for the most part, are with the figure in white and silver he glimpses every so often moving through the crowd. Even when he’s dismissed for the night (not without a command to play at the Emperor’s pleasure the next night, of course), when at last he lets a certain young man lead him to an apartment in another wing of the palace, he’s thinking of Crowley. Of what an angel could possibly be doing here, of what games Caligula’s suddenly decided to invent, of the things he wants to tell the angel when they meet up again.

He’s thinking of Crowley, too, as he coaxes his latest conquest— _harder, harder, harder._

It’s dawn by the time he staggers back to his villa. Not to sleep—Aziraphale has only risked sleep once every few centuries, and found it full of nightmares each time—but for a long hot bath and some quiet.[1] By the time noon rolls around, he’s relaxed again, the glittering falseness of the court washed from his skin and his mind for the moment.

*

Crowley thinks, and thinks, and thinks. He asks questions—of himself, of Her, of the world in general—and tries to come up with answers. It’s what he’s always done. It’s not always a success. 

He comes up with a few answers this time, but they aren’t ones he finds particularly comfortable. They’ll take getting used to.

A few hours after sunrise he wanders back into Rome, where he does have a room for all that he didn’t stay in it last night. A nap would be nice—Crowley enjoys sleep, though he can’t indulge in it as often as he’d like—but his head is still too busy. Instead he opts to go to a bathhouse and spend a little time getting clean the human way, distracting himself with hot steam and cold water. He deliberately chooses one in a less expensive section of the city, to make it less likely he’ll run into anyone from the previous night, or even anyone privy to its gossip. Though hopefully he wouldn’t be recognized without silver paint and crescent moons.

Hopefully. This assignment isn’t turning out at all as he’d planned it. They never do. Humans are chaotic that way. Most of the time Crowley loves that, despite the difficulties of explaining to Heaven that free will makes a mockery of all their best-laid plans and intentions, and Hell’s as well, which he’s pretty sure was the whole point of humans to begin with. But just now he could really go with things happening as he expects for a while, though he knows perfectly well they won’t.

The bathhouse relaxes him somewhat, though not as much as he’d like. And then it’s noon. Finally.

Just in case, he uses a minor miracle to make sure he’s unobserved as he makes his way to Aziraphale’s villa. It does have a lyre over the door, and despite too many hours of too many thoughts, Crowley smiles up at it even as he knocks and requests entrance. The servant tells him he’s expected and leads the way, and for the first time Crowley meets Aziraphale in the latter’s home, however temporary a residence.

*

The villa is tastefully decorated, in no way ostentatious—though there are instruments on display throughout the house it’s clear they all see some regular use, and the frescoes on the walls range from irreverent to borderline erotic. One in particular depicts Proserpina being abducted by the Lord of the Dead; the goddess has been painted in such a way that her gown is rucked up, neckline low, one arm thrown gracefully about Pluto’s shoulders just as he has one arm around her waist. She almost seems to be smiling.

Aziraphale himself is waiting in the triclinium,[2] pacing back and forth, and when Crowley crosses the threshold of the room his entire being seems to brighten.

“Good to see you again,” he says, and this time his smile reaches all the way up into those catlike eyes. He gestures at the couches he’s arranged around a small wooden table: lunch, it appears, is already prepared. Fresh fruit—expensive at this time of year—and dried fruit, bread and pastry, olives and nuts and cheese, all surrounding an impressively large stoneware jug.

“Here—it’s not a picnic, exactly, but I thought you might want something actually edible after that banquet.”

*

Crowley is fascinated by all the instruments, and smiles ruefully at the art. Before yesterday the imagery would have made him laugh outright; today he’s a little tired of the subject, but they're funny all the same.

He’s a little nervous as he walks in, but there’s no question Aziraphale is glad to see him, and some tension in Crowley that’s been present for the past day finally loosens at the sight of Aziraphale’s smile. They’re still friends. That hasn’t changed, and it’s what matters most. Whatever else Crowley has learned about him, this is still Aziraphale, and the demon is happy to see him.

So Crowley’s smile, if not as bright and full as it’s sometimes been, is at least warm and sincere, and he walks forward and grabs Aziraphale in a quick, hard embrace before answering.

“I would,” he says, with evident relief, eyeing this simpler fare with appreciation as he lets go. “Thanks. After last night I don’t want to eat anything in some over-spiced rich sauce for at least a decade.”

He grimaces as he walks over to one of the couches. “Unfortunately I’ll probably have to tonight. Tempted to just turn it all into water while I’m eating it, or pretend to have food poisoning. Ugh. How have you been putting up with it? Does he entertain like that every night?”

*

At once Aziraphale notices something in Crowley’s posture relax, some tension unknot itself, and it only broadens his own smile—and then the angel steps forward and hugs him, and his heart does some sort of embarrassing squirming gymnastics that he refuses to call a flutter.

It’s a friendly embrace. But, Satan, the angel is so warm, and the shock of comfort it sends through him is enough to quiet the furious swirl of his thoughts. Whatever else Aziraphale may feel, may be trying to burn out of himself with the pursuit of lust, Crowley is his best friend, and there is little in the world more comforting to any feeling creature than a hug from a best friend.

He’s breathing a little more easily when Crowley pulls back. With the air of a pleased cat settling on a favorite sunny windowsill he drapes himself over a couch as well, reaches over for an apple.

“Most nights, unfortunately, unless there’s some sort of event outside of the palace.” He sighs, turning the fruit over in his hands. Just being in Crowley’s presence again is doing as much to ease his mind as the hot bath did to ease his corporeal form earlier. “The playing excuses me from having to eat much—though I might steal that water trick in the future. Mostly I’ve just... I don’t know, put it somewhere else.”[3]

His gaze drifts to the familiar angles of Crowley’s lean face, the divine cheekbones and expressive eyebrows, and his expression goes fond. The silver paint may suit him, but he’s beautiful like this, no decoration but his own smile—and even if that smile is a little reserved, it still warms Aziraphale to the soul.

*

Crowley doesn’t drape himself on a couch so much as flop onto one, lying much more haphazardly than the usual Roman style. “Terrific,” he groans. “This assignment gets better by the minute. You’re here to tempt the Emperor, I take it?” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back out of his face as he reaches for some grapes with his other hand. “Impressive waste of time, that. He could probably teach even the Princes of Hell a few things about corruption. Charming fellow. Actually makes me miss Nebuchadnezzar II.”[4]

*

“That makes two of us.” Aziraphale reaches for the table again, plucks up a fruit knife and busies his hands with cutting his apple into slices. “I was supposed to tempt him into great debauchery and whatnot, but he was already like that when I got here.”

A flash of amusement crosses his blue eyes before he adds, “If you’ve been sent here to try and work a miraculous change of heart, you might as well tell your supervisors it’s a lost cause. He barely listens to my suggestions anymore, and those are the fun ones.”

*

“Thank the Almighty, _no_ ,” Crowley says fervently. He pops a grape in his mouth and chews it, mostly to get the taste of last night’s banquet out of his mouth. Feels like it’s still there, lingering and fetid. “That task would definitely be beyond me. Though I’d love to see Gabriel or Uriel try, pity I can’t suggest it.”

He fires a grin over at Aziraphale before settling back with another grape. “No, I’m here to make sure his uncle Claudius becomes the next Emperor. Thought that meant I’d be here a while, a few years at least, but now…” He shakes his head. “If Caligula lasts the month, I’ll be surprised. His throne is crumbling under his arse and he’s too busy playing gods and goddesses to notice.”

Crowley sits up suddenly, swings his legs back over the side of the couch, looks at Aziraphale with abrupt concern. “Is that a problem on your end? If he’s your assignment, I mean.”

*

For a moment Aziraphale is silent, considering, turning the apple in his hands a little more as he carves off another slice. This is a trickier situation than they’ve been in yet. Logically he knows what he’s supposed to do—refuse to tell the angel anything and, if possible, try to drag him into sin—but logic and friendship have little to do with each other at the best of times.

At last he says, thoughtfully, “My supervisors didn’t actually tell me to do anything specific beyond tempting him. And they do love the chaos of a fight over succession. So I don’t think that puts me under any sort of obligation to thwart you.”

There’s no surprise in his tone. He’s known for a while that Caligula’s extravagant and capricious behavior is a swift road to self-destruction. It’s only a matter of time before the humans reach a breaking point—after all, he himself is nearly out of patience, and he’s had millennia to build up a reservoir of the stuff.

*

Crowley is silent for a minute, his face troubled.

“Should I go?” he asks finally. “I don’t want you to risk getting in trouble. I probably shouldn’t have told you why I’m here. I can see how it… puts you in a difficult position, I guess.”

He looks tense and unhappy. They might not be here at directly cross purposes, but it’s a lot closer than they’ve ever come to it before. Even if it was inevitable sooner or later, he doesn’t like it.

*

“No—no, please don’t.”

Aziraphale sits up at once, the apple forgotten for the moment.

“Look, I... if you hadn’t shown up I’d probably be getting ready to move on anyways. I don’t care who ends up on the throne, and frankly I don’t know if Hell does either. Besides, they do enjoy a ruckus, and we both know that’s coming no matter what either of us does.”

He pauses, heart twisting in the quiet, before he adds softly, “Please. You don’t have to go.”

*

Crowley half-smiles. “I did mean just right now—I can’t leave Rome yet whether I want to or not. Though I could maybe find a way to keep a lower profile than I’ve fallen into.” He scrunches his nose up in brief, faintly amused distaste. “And I could avoid you, if needed. But I’d rather not. I’d much rather not.”

His smile grows. “And it’d be a shame to waste this spread after you put so much effort into putting it together. Right?”

*

As small as Crowley’s smile is, it’s genuine; when it broadens and brightens Aziraphale feels the rising tension between his shoulders begin to go slack again. His heart lifts as it hasn’t in years, simply with the knowledge that they have a little time together and that Crowley wants to enjoy it.

(The more he has of it, the more he finds time in Crowley’s presence brighter than the memory of his days in Heaven. Time like this may be stolen, from the forces of Heaven and Hell and sheer human chaos alike, but it’s _theirs_ , where they can share meals and trade stories and draw comfort from one another.)

His own smile blossoms; his eyes narrow a little, like a cat’s.

“I was hoping I’d have something you hadn’t tried before,” he confesses. “If nothing else, you really should try the peaches. From Persia, I’m told, though these come from a fellow I know outside the city.”

*

Crowley’s face breaks into an outright, much relieved grin. “That’s not hard. I don’t eat all that much on my own, you know that. And you’re in luck, because I haven’t ever eaten a peach. So you may as well tempt me into it. We can pretend I resisted mightily for a while first if anyone asks.”

Which they won’t, not on his end. Crowley’s gotten a few awkward questions from Above now and then about his activities on Earth, but they have a lot more to do with whether or not he’s more involved with humanity than he really needs to be, and what’s the point of this sleeping business, and why are humans so obsessed with alcohol, and furthermore...

It would be untrue to say he’s given up explaining it all to the others. It would be more accurate to say he never tried very hard at it to begin with.

So Crowley grins across the table at the person who’s known him best ever since they met, and picks up a peach and knife to slice it open. “To be honest, I didn’t expect this level of chaos when they sent me out,” he admits. “Thought it’d be a matter of manipulating the succession, not keeping my target alive. ‘Ruckus’ looks to be a mild term. When all this breaks, it’ll be bloody.”

He makes a face. “And I _definitely_ didn’t expect the Emperor to decide I should join in on his playacting. I’m supposed to report back to his servants before the feast tonight again, so I’m properly in costume. With a bow and arrow this time.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “Can you see me using a bow and arrow? Seriously? I’m more likely to twang the string into my nose.”

He doesn’t mind his nose, but there’s no question it protrudes somewhat.

*

The mental image Crowley conjures brings a laugh bubbling out of him. Which, in turn, keeps him from thinking too hard about what the next few weeks will bring—Crowley’s right, it’ll be a very human mess very soon. Roman Emperors don’t just step down; when Caligula falls it will be more or less straight into Hell.

To be perfectly honest, he’s more or less reconciled to the idea.[5] As long as he can manage to keep any of the children at the palace from being swept up in it, he’s largely indifferent to whether Caligula lives or dies, and not particularly inclined to arrange things either way. This Emperor has been the engineer of his own destruction; Aziraphale has no desire to interfere.

“You can always cheat, if he demands you shoot at something. Don’t think he will, though, so you’ll just have to carry it around.” He pauses for a bite of apple, relishing the satisfying crunch, the tart sweetness—and turning over an idea that’s suddenly occurred to him.

“Listen—can I ask you something?”

*

Any time Crowley’s been able to make Aziraphale laugh has felt like a victory, and this is no exception. In addition to the peach he gathers some bread and a few slices of cheese, a couple other small things, enough to have at least a taste of everything Aziraphale arranged for them. He makes a point of picking out anything he’s never had before, since the demon is apparently curious about his thoughts. Why Aziraphale takes such pleasure in introducing Crowley to new foods he’s never figured out, but it’s harmless and interesting, so why not?

He snorts contempt at the idea of just carrying a bow and arrow around for the evening, then lays back down with his plate. “’Course you can. What?”

*

Although he’s taken care to make sure they can’t be overheard by humans, and he’s checked to see whether the forces of Hell are listening—they’re not—Aziraphale still keeps his voice low and chooses his words carefully.

“What if,” he says, “we were to—sort of collaborate on this one? Nothing big or flashy that would attract attention, just... quietly making sure Claudius is out of harm’s way when things get messy.”

Caligula may be cruel to his uncle, but even if Aziraphale finds Claudius a bit stuffy he’s not bad as humans go. Certainly he’s more thoughtful than his nephew, though frankly the demon suspects there are species of moss more thoughtful than Caligula.

“And if the children at the palace were to be removed from danger at the same time, well... no one would have to know.”

*

Crowley’s eyes widen. It’s a risky idea. All the time they spend together is dangerous, really, for all of Crowley’s conviction that the forces Above and Below don’t pay too close attention so long as all the work gets done and all the paperwork is filed on time. Even so, it’s a step up. Time spent together could get excused away, fudged, explained: _Thought I’d try my hand at tempting an angel, haven’t seen one of those Fall in millennia!... Thought I’d see if I could redeem a demon, or at least keep him busy and harmless while this other important thing was happening over here_ , something of that sort. They could get out of it, in the hopefully unlikely event they ever got caught.

But actively working together… that would be harder to sell. Harder to bluff. Which doesn’t make it untempting, mind, especially given how near they just came to being at odds in this case. Wouldn’t it be easier if they work with each other from the start? Sure, Hell is supposed to wile and Heaven is supposed to thwart, natural enemies, all that propaganda that Crowley’s looked askance at from the start...

But what if it _worked_ , that’s the thing. If they could get the actual assignments done more efficiently. They’d have more free time, for one. Better, more free time in the same place at the same time. 

All those arguments would probably be enough to convince Crowley to try it, certainly for this particular instance. But then Aziraphale makes his own part of the deal getting all the children out of danger before the blood hits the walls, and Crowley’s considering expression melts into a warm smile. “Every time. You do this every time.” The affection in the words is so palpable a listener could pluck it from the air, cut it with a small knife, and spread it on a piece of bread along with the soft cheese. “That sounds like a _magnificent_ idea, and I agree.”

*

Aziraphale could wrap himself up in the fondness that flows off of Crowley, could curl into it like a heavy blanket on a cold night. It smoothes away weeks’ worth of restlessness, months’ worth; it makes him feel renewed.

And when the angel agrees, thank Whoever Would Be Least Upset By That, a grin starts to bloom on his face in a way it hasn’t since a night spent on a hillside in Bethlehem.

The thing is, Aziraphale’s been thinking about the children for a while—particularly Caligula’s daughter, Julia Drusilla. She’s only a year old, and there’s no telling how she’ll turn out. Later historians will describe her as having a ‘savage temper’ and she does cry quite a lot, but Aziraphale supposes if he were a baby human in the constant noise of Caligula’s palace he would be howling for some peace and quiet too. She doesn’t deserve to be caught up in whatever’s coming, and even if saving her doesn’t mean thwarting God directly this time, it still has the same ring of spiteful triumph.

And Crowley is willing to help him do it. Aziraphale’s heart thrums secretly and joyfully with love; his eyes are, at last, untroubled.

“Should we drink on it?” he asks. “Make it official the way the humans do?”

*

“As though I’ve ever turned down a chance to drink with you, ever,” Crowley says, laughing as he sits back up. These Roman couches are ridiculous, really, so much lying down and getting up… they only really work if there are servants to bring you everything while you lounge. Servants Aziraphale likely has, but privacy is better. “Pour the wine and let’s toast to… what do we call this? A collaboration, you said?”

*

“Collaboration, agreement, understanding... whatever form of a deal you want to call it.”

A weight has lifted from Aziraphale, a tension eased out of his voice. Whatever they want to call it, it’s the two of them working toward a common goal, getting one over on Hell and Heaven alike.

There’s a feline twinkle in his eye as he reaches for the wine, pouring out a generous goblet’s worth for Crowley first.

“Imported from Illyricum,” he admits. “Been saving it for a special occasion.”

A week ago he’d thought that special occasion would be the end of his assignment here; now he gets to share it with his best friend. To toast an agreement between them. Even if his heart still yearns for the impossible, he has this much.

The goblet he pours for himself is equally generous; the liquid gleams in the pale winter daylight as he holds it up.

“To a deal,” he says, almost laughing with pleased relief.

*

The difference between the Aziraphale of last night and the Aziraphale of this moment is palpable. He looks as happy as he did when they left Jerusalem, and Crowley laughs with delight at the sight of those twinkling eyes above a broad smile. That expression is far more important than anything he learned last night. He can set aside all the rest of it if he gets to have this, even if it’s only once in a while.

“Perfect,” he says, reaching for his goblet. “Illyrian wine has been my favorite for a few years now. Can’t imagine why.” His grin recalls a sunny day spent in Salona, and says exactly why.

He chuckles again and shakes his head at the word deal, however; that word has connotations that aren’t good for either of them, given their respective jobs. “An arrangement, let’s say.” He leans over the table and taps his goblet lightly against Aziraphale’s. “To a little extra interference. For the Greater Good, of course.”

He puts on a mock-pious expression at that. Aziraphale will know it’s a jest rather than Crowley being seriously holier-than-thou (which he almost never is, except in a nice and accurate sense), and that Aziraphale is invited to share it.

*

At once Aziraphale senses the joke—he’s always liked Crowley’s sense of humor, ironic without being barbed—and his own eyes warm before his face arranges itself into a suitably irreverent expression.

“I think you mean for the Greater Evil,” he says, “but yes, to a little extra interference.”

The first glass is excellent; the clear bright taste on his tongue calls to mind the smells and sights and sounds of Illyricum. The second is even better, accompanied as it is by discussion of what Crowley’s been up to over the past few years. The third is equally good, and it’s not long at all before he’s quite happily drunk. Not a numbing drunk, the way he’s sometimes indulged during Caligula’s parties, but the kind of floaty warm drunk where soft things feel exquisite and everything tastes twice as good as it normally does.

*

The first glass is lovely, the second even more so. The bread and cheese and grapes are lovely. The peaches are lovely too, just the right sort of sweet, though they drip juice onto Crowley’s wrist and he has to lick it off and then complains about it, because that’s _just_ what happened with the fig outside of Babel and Aziraphale has to be doing it on purpose, wily demon that he is. The olives are less appreciated and cause Crowley to make an aghast face and dive back into his third glass of wine (which fortunately is lovely) to remove the taste from his mouth.

By the time he’s on his third glass Crowley is also on his feet, wandering around the room and talking while he drinks, running his hand along the walls and asking about the frescos, or babbling about Greek and Roman mythologies and why they’ve sprung up the way they have, or whatever else happens to come to mind for either one of them.

“The thing is—” he says, waving a hand in the air, and then stopping like he’s forgotten what he was talking about, and then moving again. “The thing is, is _proof_ , that’s the thing.”

Given that a second ago he was talking about how leaves fall off of trees in autumn, and a few moments before that they were talking about nuts, it’s hard to see how that’s relevant at all.

*

By this point Aziraphale is lounging comfortably on his couch, sinking into the spot just as if he had four paws and a tail. He’s also had nearly twice as much wine as Crowley, and though he’s been hoping it would somehow burn the image of the angel licking peach juice off his own wrist out of his mind, it’s having rather the opposite effect. He’s feeling almost flushed enough to loosen the saffron-gold scarf he wears around his neck to cover his scar.

Almost.

Crowley says something important, as if he’s just come to a conclusion, but—it’s got nothing to do with leaves and nuts and nice things like peaches. Aziraphale blinks muzzily over at him.

“Proof of what?” he asks, gone a little slow and slurred with the wine. Good stuff, that Illyrian wine. “What’s proof?”

*

“Proof!” Crowley emphasizes, waving his hands around with so much enthusiasm it’s a miracle his wine doesn’t spill out of his glass.[6] He’s definitely gotten going now, babbling up a storm that’s mostly linear and coherent, though not necessarily. When he’s sober again he’ll probably be a little embarrassed about it. “Proof, evidence, veri—veffiri—”

His tongue gets tied [7] and he abandons the word midway through. “What I mean is, humans. They want proof of things, so they started going about it backwards, yeah? Didn’t need proof God existed for the first millennia because She was doing things, and you and I were swanning—crowing—bird and cat-ing around the world, wings out all the time, and there were miracles all over. And Adam and Eve were still around to tell people, since they all lived so bloody long back then.”

He stops and sways for a moment, a habitual expression of sadness crossing his face, which then suddenly brightens as he remembers those much-loved first humans aren’t being tortured in Hell anymore. They got out.

Then he shakes his head and keeps going. “But now there’s no proof anymore, just, just words, so the humans go Hey, leaves are changing color and falling off trees, why’s that happening? And invent a story for why it happens, and think that’s proof the story’s true even though it all happened backwards. No way to tell the true stories from the made-up ones anymore.”

He stops to try and spin his hands around each other, notices there’s a glass in one of them, and drains what’s left. “So now we’ve got all these other made-up gods like, like Diana and Apollo, and for all the humans really know they’re as real as She is, and—”

Crowley collapses back onto his couch and runs a hand back through his hair. “...I forget where I was going with this. Something about faith. Heaven’s always going on about having faith. S’why they don’t like me much.”

*

Aziraphale blinks a few more times, taking in all of this information and all the gesturing that goes with it. After a few pleasantly blurry moments he puts together that Crowley is talking about Heaven, and what humans believe, and though it does nothing to sober him up it does give his thoughts a slightly more grave cast.

“I don’t really blame the humans, though,” he says eventually, looking down into his goblet. Huh. Empty. Wasn’t that way a few minutes ago. “I mean—if you don’t know what She’s really like you can imagine anything at all. Somebody in charge of the sun, and the moon, and a lovely goddess to protect the people who tend the hearth, and what have you.” Sometimes he thinks that’d make more sense. For all that they’re unpredictable creatures, humans can be extremely good at organization. “And if you don’t know what Heaven’s like, you can imagine that any way you want, too. Instead of being boring and full of sanctimonious pricks.” His mouth twists in an apologetic smile. “Present company excepted, naturally.”

*

Crowley bangs a fist down on the table, hard enough that his goblet tumbles over. Good thing it was empty. No, that’s a terrible thing, he’d better refill it. In a minute. Right now he’s excited. “Yes! Yes, that’s my point! How’re they supposed to know? They can’t! And then Heaven says ’Ah, but that’s just it, they’re not supposed to know, they’re supposed to have _faith!’_ ”

Crowley rolls his eyes and picks up his goblet, reaches vaguely for the bottle. “And I just, just don’t understand that at all. If it were only about faith, what was up with the whole apple business? Free will, She gave them. Or allowed them to choose for themselves. Same thing, I’d say. So now they can believe or not believe, and tell themselves stories about hearth goddesses, and autumn leaves, and the world resting on the backs of four elephants riding on a swimming space turtle. And it’s all _so much more interesting_ that way.”

He leans back against the arm of his couch and makes a face. “But just try to tell anyone up there that. Never happen, they listen for a few minutes, then it’s all ‘Thanks Sheelael, very insightful I’m sure, don’t forget to hand in that report next week, run along now.’ They’re not _interested_.” He sighs. “If I were Her, I’d get no end of a kick out of the elephants thing. Small wonder humans want to believe stories like that instead of the real one. Who wouldn’t? I mean, elephants! On a turtle!”

*

Aziraphale’s heard the elephants-and-turtle story before, and he giggles as he remembers it—it’s quite the fanciful image. Humans have much deeper and richer and weirder ideas of divinity than the actual forces in charge. It’s one of the many reasons he’s so fond of humanity, why he delights in tempting by suggestion. You never know what they’re going to imagine.

“I would be sorry I hadn’t thought of it first,” he says, laughter bright beneath his voice, before a more serious thought occurs. Even drunk he still doesn’t want to end up wandering into the story of his Fall—it’s too much of a reminder of winter, in the middle of this unexpected breath of spring.

But it’s difficult not to be reminded of how completely his trust in his Creator was shattered.

“Thing is,” he manages at last, slow and thoughtful, “you have to earn it. Faith, I mean. Otherwise it’s just... another story people tell themselves. And you can’t do it by scaring the daylights out of them every hundred years or so—that’s not faith, that’s staying in line.”

*

Crowley sighs and sinks down lower on his couch. “Yeah,” he says after a while. “Yeah, it is. Faith and belief… not the same thing, those two. I mean, obviously we believe, but we know She’s up there. She made us, we’ve talked to Her and everything. Having faith is another thing entirely. They keep saying up there that it’s the whole point, to not have proof, that it’s all about _spiritual conviction_ and following all the rules, but it’s getting harder and harder to tell which rules are Hers and which ones are things Heaven came up with, and—”

He suddenly shakes his head, sits up and looks appalled almost to the point of sobriety. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. Forgot this isn’t just, just, s’not hypothetical for you. I mean, that it’s already happened, that—I am so sorry.”

*

Those remarks about rules would hurt more, he knows, if they were in anyone else’s mouth. But Crowley talks about them with frustration and curiosity, and that’s oddly comforting. At least Crowley has some sliver of understanding of how Aziraphale must feel about the situation. And Crowley cares whether he’s treading on sensitive ground or not, which is more than anyone else has ever done.

Besides, he’s really cute when he’s flustered, all earnest and stumbling.

So it’s easy to summon up a real smile for him, one warm with casual forgiveness. 

“Didn’t know angels were allowed to swear like that,” he drawls. “But if you’re not, I won’t tell.”

Aziraphale takes the opportunity to roll over and reach for some fruit. Which is more difficult to grasp than it seems at first, because his eyes have gone a little unfocused from drink.

“And anyway—that whole thing about following the rules, it’s all just fear. Do as you’re told or you’ll be smote—smited? Smitten? ...slapped down with great force. You can _believe_ in that, but if you don’t know better, you don’t have to be afraid of it. Look for proof of nicer things, and be comforted while you’re here.”

*

Crowley almost melts with relief at this evidence that he hasn’t royally (or divinely, or ethereally, or whatever) put his foot in it, and flashes a grin back. “Been on Earth four thousand years,” he retorts. “You really think it’s possible to be here that long chasing humans around and _not_ pick up swearing? I defy even Michael to manage it.”

He settles back down, leaning against the arm of his couch instead of flopping as he was earlier. “You’re right about the fear, though,” he says thoughtfully. “There’s a lot of that, being motivated by fear. They say it’s all a compulsion towards goodness, but it isn’t. Or not always, at least.”

He frowns, thinking, or at least thinking as best he can through a wine-sodden brain. “Yeshua said that was part of why he came, so it wouldn’t be about fear anymore. Least, he implied it. I think. Did you know his disciples are writing it all down? Bet we get at least three accounts of the same events, all of them different.” Crowley makes a face. “Because Her forbid things are straightforward even _once_ , just for five minutes.”

*

At the mention of Yeshua, Aziraphale’s mouth quirks thoughtfully. He’s met a handful of the man’s followers, in the course of making his way from Jerusalem to Rome; they don’t seem especially different from most other humans, thus far. And that remark about the imminent and probably wildly different versions of the man’s teachings turns that quirk into a full-blown smile.

“You know humans. Probably end up with four or five versions, one of which will have a dream sequence for no reason.”

They do like to talk about the bizarre things that happen in their dreams. Aziraphale has always wondered what that must be like—sleep with strange but harmless images, unfinished stories interrupted by waking.

But it’s at this point that his rather sodden brain catches up with something the angel said earlier, and Aziraphale glances over at him, considering.

“D’you always introduce yourself to humans as Crowley?” he asks. As far as he knows there aren’t any other angels with nicknames; people may pronounce or write the names of angels differently depending on the language they speak, but those names are still always impressively formal.

*

“’Course,” Crowley says absently, still musing on Yeshua and why God sent him. “Introduce myself to everyone that way. Otherwise it’s—”

He stops and grimaces, glancing at Aziraphale as his attention catches up. “...forgot. You wouldn’t—”

Crowley stops again, sighs, swings his feet around so he can lean his arms on his knees. Thinks for a few minutes before trying to speak. “...I realize this isn’t, not an easy topic for you, I imagine, but—try to picture it just for a minute.” He looks serious all at once. Still drunk, but serious. “Heaven, after the War, picking up all the pieces and getting itself in order and trying to make sense of what just happened. Half the Host, just gone, all at once. Fallen. Scared everyone witless, to be honest, especially after—”

 _After Israfel Fell too, just for mourning._ But he doesn’t say it. It’s a surprise how much the thought still hurts.

Crowley hurries on. “So everyone threw themselves into work, yeah? Restoration, building, moving on. And then there’s me, Sheelael, wandering around asking questions like I always have, but now suddenly that’s not just, just a useful or amusing or irritating thing, suddenly it’s a threat. Sheelael _means_ a Question of God. I’d keep asking, because I can’t… can’t _not_ question things, even when maybe I shouldn’t.”

His hands are clasped in the air between his legs, which is the only reason they aren’t trembling. “And that can’t be wrong. It can’t be. It’s in my _name_ , it _has_ to be part of my purpose, questioning things. Maybe even questioning Her. Which I do, all the time, not that She ever answers. But that doesn’t exactly make me popular, Up There. Most of them are just waiting for me to Fall, they think it’s inevitable.”

Crowley takes a breath, shrugs. “Probably they’re right and I will, sooner or later. But it means other angels avoid me so I don’t contaminate them with curiosity. _Follow the Great Plan_ , that’s the number one rule there now, _and everything will work out for the best possible Good._ It’s fear, like you said, buried under a lot of righteousness. Was pretty clear pretty fast that I didn’t fit that script, since I keep asking all these niggling endless _questions_ , so as soon as the chance came up I volunteered for Earth duty instead where at least people don’t treat me like I’m already gone, or about to explode, or _something._ ”

The last bit comes out in a rush, and he takes in a deep breath afterwards. “So, yes. Being Crowley is a lot better. Got laughter associated with it instead of… all that.”

*

As Crowley talks, the fuzzed chorus of Aziraphale’s thoughts grows quiet.

He finds himself sitting upright, leaning forward on his couch to listen. Despite the pleasant blurring effect of the wine, Crowley’s words are making him seem clearer and clearer to Aziraphale—it’s as if a song he’s only heard in shreds and patches from a distance is being played for him in its entirety close by. His gaze fixes, unblinking, on Crowley’s face; he no longer cares whether or not he’s staring.

In a way he almost envies Crowley his doubts, his loneliness: he himself had been completely naive, had seen the world as a simple place full of simple joys, and had only found out too late how wrong he was. If he had learned any tiny measure of wariness, he might have known when to keep his bloody mouth shut... or, he thinks with sudden surprise, he might have raised his voice even louder, in his last fatal moments as an angel. Looked Her in the eye and gone out singing, instead of begging for mercy.

It’s a thought that turns all at once into a conviction with a handful of words.

_It has to be part of my purpose._

When Crowley at last winds down into silence, Aziraphale pushes himself off his couch, takes the few steps around the table to sit next to the angel. His hands rise to curl around Crowley’s thin shoulders, turning his friend to face him.

“Listen to me.”

Unlike that night eight years ago, there are no tears this time. His voice is soft and steady; he doesn’t slur a single word.

“You were made for a purpose. If you follow that purpose and She decides you have to Fall for it, that makes Her wrong. _Not you._ There’s nothing wrong with you, nothing at all, and no one should treat you as if there is. And if She...”

He has to stop for a moment, there, because the thought of Crowley having to endure the wrenching pain of a Fall nearly makes his heart stop beating. He pulls in a breath, holds it a moment before letting go, as if he can exhale the very idea.

“Whatever happens, I’m still your friend.”

*

Crowley smiles, bright and sweet. “I know. All those things, especially that last bit.”

He reaches up and covers one of the hands on his shoulders with his, squeezing Aziraphale’s fingers. “And...well, I haven’t Fallen, right? If it was going to happen because I ask the wrong questions, wouldn’t it have already happened? But whether it does or doesn’t—” He shrugs. “There’s nothing I can do about it. It’s up to Her, and honestly I don’t worry about it much. I still have faith. Even if I also question everything.”

His smile turns a little apologetic at that, because it feels like a bit of a slap in the face to Aziraphale to say it. But it is true. Manifestly true, given that without faith—without some measure of trust in the Almighty—he _would_ Fall, whatever other reasons were or weren’t involved.

Crowley sighs and lowers his hand to his knee again. “Anyway. Point is, I hate the way they all say my name up there, like it’s something dirty. So yeah, when Eve gave me a new one I went with it. Besides, I _like_ it. I like being Crowley. Crowley gets to run around on Earth and watch humans do all these amazing things, see sunrises and plants and stuff.” He smiles again, looking Aziraphale right in the eyes. “Gets to hang around drinking wine with you, too, and all the other things we do. How could I not prefer that?”

*

Somehow that simple declaration _I still have faith_ doesn’t carry much of a sting with it—not when it’s counterbalanced by the admission that Crowley is constantly questioning Her. Aziraphale’s never once heard Crowley parrot back the same rote righteousness that other angels on Earth have spouted at him, and Crowley’s never treated him as if he deserved his Fall. Not even in the beginning. Not even after knowing he tried to tempt the Son of God. Not once.

And he would rather be Crowley here, with a demon, than an angel among his brethren.

Before Aziraphale can really think he’s lifted a hand from one of Crowley’s shoulders to tuck a stray lock of hair back behind his ear. His fingertips skim fondly over the angel’s cheek, a touch as light as breath; he feels his face soften, his eyelids grow heavy.

Aziraphale leans forward, slowly, just an inch.

And of course, _of course_ , that’s the moment a flurry of footsteps race down the corridor towards them.

He nearly jumps out of his human body altogether, shocked halfway back to sobriety and all the way to the opposite end of the couch from Crowley, as one of his servants comes pattering into the triclinium with an out-of-breath messenger in tow.

“Oh—so sorry to disturb you, sir, only—message from the Palace for you.”

He wasn’t in any way sorry to hear Caligula’s days are numbered; now Aziraphale would like to whittle those numbers down personally.

*

Crowley’s lips part at the feel of a soft touch to his face. He remembers that, from the garden at the inn in Jerusalem. Was it only eight years ago? It seems sometimes like he’s known that gentle brush of fingers forever. Except for sometimes, when it seems something he only imagined, too brief and sweet to have been real.

Without realizing it he closes his eyes, distracted by unexpected tenderness in the caress.

It’s a shock when there are footsteps and the touch abruptly vanishes, and Crowley opens his eyes to see a visibly flustered Aziraphale suddenly on the other side of the couch as two humans enter. He has a terrible urge to laugh. At least it’s not a talking statue with a summons from Hell this time. To cover up his sudden attack of the giggles he quickly takes a large drink of wine, leaning back to wait.

*

Despite Aziraphale’s generally harmless appearance, there’s a menacing glare in his feline gaze as he turns it on the messenger; the man falters, breathless and hesitant.

“The—the Emperor requests—Apollo’s presence tonight,” he pants, apologetic. “Festivities begin—at sunset.”

The winter skies above Rome are starting to mellow into shades of gold already, barely four hours after noon. Aziraphale’s jaw clenches briefly, but he forces himself to take a few deep breaths, just to keep himself from hissing at the messenger. It takes him a moment to muster the calm to dismiss his servant, who leads the poor courier to the kitchen for some water; as soon as they’re gone his shoulders slump a little with sheer frustration.

“Poor timing as usual,” he mutters, though quite honestly he’s feeling as if he might need to find a quiet hillside where he can have a proper scream. “Better sober up. And we’d probably better not arrive together—no telling when you’ll find him in one of his moods.”

*

Crowley bites the inside of his mouth, still near to howling laughter at the absurdity of the situation. “Yeah—yeah, we should,” he manages. “Pity. Never as fun coming back from drunk as it is getting there.”

He giggles as he says it, and is vaguely aware that it’s not at all a good reaction to be having, and he’d better do that sobering up thing sooner rather than later, so he does. It takes a bit of concentration, and a minute or so.

Afterwards he makes a face, sticking out his tongue. “Mouth always tastes awful after doing that,” he mutters, reaching for a piece of cheese to help with the problem as he gets to his feet. “Should go. Got to leave time to put myself in the hands of the Emperor’s team of dress-up artists again before I’m allowed to make an appearance.” He wrinkles his nose irritably. “Claudius better be an _exceptional_ emperor to make up for all this silliness.”

*

Aziraphale winces slightly as the alcohol vanishes from his system—even condensed down to thirty seconds, hangovers are one of the worst parts of having a human body—before he pushes himself to his feet.

“If he foregoes the costuming bits he’s already ahead of the game,” he sighs. “I’ll keep my ears open tonight, see if I can get some idea of who’s doing what when.”

After all, as a master of whispers himself, he’s quite good at picking up on them even in a loud room. Although at the moment he wouldn’t be surprised to hear anyone plotting Caligula’s assassination at full volume—Crowley’s not wrong, the Emperor has pushed those around him beyond the point of endurance with his whims and paranoia.

*

“That much, at least, I think I can guarantee. Hardly seems his style.” Crowley grimaces. “I’ll probably be put on display again, which makes it bloody difficult to find out anything useful. But if it means people are concentrating enough on me to leave you free to work, that’s something, at least.”

Aziraphale nods; then something seems to occur to him all at once. “Oh, I meant to ask—do you ride horses? I can lend you one, to get to the palace faster.”

The smile Crowley casts towards him immediately dissolves into an expression of mild horror, and he holds up his hands. “ _Oh_ no, no no no no no. No. Horses and I don’t get on. I’ll walk. I’d much rather walk. Much.”

And if there’s a story there, Aziraphale will have to wait until next time to pry it out of him.

*

He can hear the story lurking, and though he knows there’s not enough time now to ask he has to smile at Crowley’s very enthusiastic refusal.

“Suit yourself, then,” Aziraphale says, warmly. “Good luck—I’ll see you later tonight.”

  


* * *

  


### Footnotes

1. It does him quite a bit of good. He has, after all, spent the night on a roller coaster, and those haven’t even been invented yet.↩

2. Or, as similar spaces will come to be known in the future, the dining room.↩

3. Most of the time _somewhere else_ is in the middle of the Mediterranean.↩

4. Truthfully Crowley did sometimes miss the seven years Nebuchadnezzar spent believing he was an ox, which had actually been pretty restful and left Crowley with lots of time to appreciate the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Hanging out, as it were.↩

5. Like most people who have truly horrible bosses.↩

6. It isn’t, actually, just luck. Assuming luck really exists. Crowley sometimes wonders.↩

7. Not literally, though that did happen once when he tried being a snake for a while, not long after their conversation in Bethlehem about the pros and cons of shapeshifting. ↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close. _So_ close. And yet so far. Poor Aziraphale.
> 
> It was too late to shoehorn a gratuitous J. Alfred Prufrock reference into the footnotes so instead I shoved it into the summary. I regret nothing. -Ashfae
> 
>  **Ashfae** can be found at [tumblr](https://ashfae.tumblr.com/), Goose in PMs to **mostlyjustgoose** here in A03, or both of us can be found in comments if you leave us one. Even if it consists of nothing but random keysmashing we'd be delighted to see it. =) All of you take care of yourselves and each other.


	14. Rome, January 23rd, AD 41 (Evening)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another party at Caligula's palace, with more gossip, more plotting, and just a little bit of angelic mischief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: Touching without permission (though vengeance is swift and thorough).

By now Aziraphale has been dressed as Apollo so many times he knows exactly where his costume is. He miracles up a few extra embellishments of gold paint on his face and shoulders and hands as finishing touches; the gold necklace that covers his scar shines like a thing newly forged. The sun has barely dipped behind the horizon when he arrives at the latest imperial party, carrying his gold-and-silver lyre and wearing a more genuine smile than he’s had at court in months.

His music, too, is brighter and sweeter than it has been. It’s still resonant with desire, with temptations to the pleasures of the flesh, but it also seems to ripple with laughter. It sets the mood—at least among the guests as they arrive—and that mood is a genial one, light and open and perhaps the slightest bit joyful.

All the while he takes in the by-now familiar faces of politicians and noblemen and hangers-on, waiting with bated breath for a single whisper of treason.

*

It could be worse, Crowley reflects. He does have a bow and quiver of arrows, but they’re small and ornamental. It really would take a miracle to do any real damage with them. Hopefully it won’t come to that. They aren’t the problem, though it’s a nuisance to have to hold on to them all the time. No, the embarrassment is from the chiton he’s been given to wear. He’s tall enough that it doesn’t quite fall to his knees, which are on display to the room and frankly bony. At least no one felt inspired to paint those silver too.

He also has a proper diadem with a crescent moon on it this time, a large one, sitting on his head and giving him the illusion of having silver horns. The irony isn’t unnoticed, and he doesn’t doubt Aziraphale will find it amusing.

It could be worse. He just keeps telling himself that as he’s brought to Caligula’s side, as the Emperor’s gaze slides over him caressingly and as he’s offered a seat by the Imperial throne. Today petitioners come to Caligula for his amusement, it seems, and Diana is to wait on him. Very literally wait, in this case, while Caligula flatters himself by playing Jupiter and his court flatters him by playing along with it.

It’s boring.

It could be worse.

He can listen to Aziraphale’s music, at least, even see him, and that’s a delight beyond measure. If he’d known the demon could play like this Crowley would’ve asked ages ago to listen. The melodies tease the listeners, coaxing smiles, and while Crowley can hear the undercurrents of temptation there, the wildness of last night is lacking.

He can only be grateful, given how Caligula sometimes turns and looks at him or touches his arm. That’s rapidly growing irritating, but he has a few ideas how to deal with it.

There’s no way to speak to Claudius from here, but that doesn’t matter: his job is to watch and protect the next emperor, not befriend him. Claudius himself is cautious. Crowley is rather impressed by him, in truth: the emperor’s uncle has a number of infirmities, a limp, deafness, a stutter. They cause significant difficulty in this cruel, corrupt palace, but Crowley can see how they also protect him, how Claudius makes himself seem harmless. He often trips or fumbles against things, and Crowley isn’t certain all those fumbles are genuine. The timing of some of them is a little too convenient. 

He watches as Claudius wanders over to sit next to Aziraphale and speak to him and sighs a little, wishing he could do the same. But Caligula addresses some comment or another to him, and Crowley turns his head away in order to answer.

*

There are undercurrents in any group of people, in any political gathering. This one is no exception, for all that the apparent pursuit of the night is pleasure.

People talk.

Caligula is in for a surprise, they say, and it is a wonder he has not noticed already how his Apollo and Diana look at each other. Diana’s expression is calm and even bored except when it rests on Apollo and his lyre, and then those eyes light up with unquestionable emotion. And Apollo—Apollo! Who has never yet been shocked by anything, who performs acts too delicious and unthinkable to speak of!—stopped playing in a jangle of strings when he first laid eyes on her. (Him? No, best to say her for now, as Caligula has willed; there is no question that if Diana is taken to bed she will be playing the passive role, after all...)

It’s delicious. It’s also a more harmless entertainment than some they have had of late, better than talk of treason or madness, or of the Emperor’s announcement that he intends to move to Egypt and there be worshipped as a living god… dangerous words, those, but a little scandal is much more savoury. No few people compliment Apollo on his playing, which tonight seems more inspired than ever, his music embodying all the playfulness of love.

Claudius does not talk much. But he watches.

*

It’s a proverbial feeding frenzy tonight. Ambitious lovers who see Apollo as a challenge cast him heated glances or sway seductively across his field of vision; servants bring over goblets of wine and small plates of delicacies, sent by senators curious about what he knows of Caligula. He ignores the flirtation, turns away the offerings with an apologetic smile—he’s working, after all.

He doesn’t look back over his shoulder at the figure in white and silver, seated at the right hand of the Emperor. But there’s a weariness that’s fallen away from him—some weight has slid off his shoulders since the previous night. Traces of some mysterious happiness glitter in the gold paint on his face and hands, brightening the room.

There are a few people here who, he notes, are keeping quiet today, who seem immune to the cheer of his music. Cassius Chaerea, of the Praetorian Guard, in particular—Caligula mocks him often, declaring his voice and manner girlish, and Cassius seethes with silent resentment even when the Emperor hasn’t singled him out for his entertainment. Aziraphale makes a note to speak with him later, and to listen in on the other few senators and noblemen who seem to be enduring the party in grim silence.

When Claudius comes to sit by him, Aziraphale moves over a little, nods slightly in acknowledgement. It’s risky to show the man actual kindness in Caligula’s presence, but he can at least be civil.

“Any requests, good sir?” he asks, half in jest, no barbs or poison in his tone. “I met a Briton the other week who taught me a few tunes. Held his lyre all wrong, but the fellow certainly could play.”

Claudius waves his hand in negation. “I know l-l-little of music,” he says dryly. He watches clever fingers pluck at strings for another minute. “You seem in b-bright… spirits tonight.”

“Perhaps I am,” Aziraphale replies, punctuating the statement with a quick ripple of rising notes like a laugh—but before he can get any further, the Emperor’s voice rings out from somewhere behind him.

“Apollo! Lay aside your lyre a moment. Your divine Father would speak with you.”

 _That would be a first_ , Aziraphale thinks, the idea turning his smile wry.

“Duty calls,” he says, as a servant scurries up to take his lyre for the moment. “Please excuse me.”

*

Crowley has not really been aware of how often his eyes drift over the room only to rest (again) on Aziraphale, or is the way his expression softens into a quiet smile when he does. Unfortunately other people have noticed, including the one it’s most prudent not to ignore.

“You must be very close to your twin, beautiful Diana.” The words are soft and quiet, but the menace in them is clear, and Crowley’s attention snaps back to the Emperor. Who is openly staring at him.

Crowley, aware he’s messed up somehow, licks his lips. “Well—”

“So by all means, let us summon him to your side.”

*

As soon as Aziraphale turns to face Caligula, he knows something is wrong. The Emperor’s eyes are dark; very deliberately he lays a hand on Crowley’s bare knee. The smile he shoots Aziraphale is sharp and narrow, and it gleams like a blade.

“Come and sit with us,” he says, his tone smooth and dark. “Here—your radiant sister can move over to accommodate you.”

In a swift movement Caligula hooks his arm around Crowley’s middle and nearly yanks the angel’s narrow frame half into his lap. Several onlookers laugh uproariously at this; Aziraphale hears them through a faint high-pitched ringing in his ears.

*

Caligula’s smile flares bright and cruel, and next thing Crowley knows there’s a hand on his bare knee (he regrets the chiton more than ever), Aziraphale’s genial smile fading and his eyes darkening to the color of storms, and then Crowley is hauled up onto an imperial lap.

Right. That is _definitely_ outside of enough.

Crowley’s eyes narrow for a moment, and then he smiles as he settles himself on Caligula’s lap. It’s not his usual smile. “Imperial Father,” he says with deliberate lightness. He lifts a finger and touches it to Caligula’s lips, which immediately captures the emperor’s full attention.

Crowley’s smile grows, not nicely. “You do me far too much honour.” He slides his fingers down from those lips to Caligula’s chest, drawing power as he goes. When his fingertips reach Caligula’s abdomen he stops, lets that power pool there, sets it churning. “I am not fit to sit on the throne of Heaven.”

He need hardly think _and neither are you_. But Caligula will have great, urgent need of a rather different sort of throne, beginning… just about… now.

Caligula’s arm had already tightened around Crowley’s waist, and he’s halfway through the motion of leaning forward when an odd expression crosses his face. Crowley raises an eyebrow, resisting the urge to cackle. “But are you well, divine Jupiter? You look pale.”

*

Caligula blinks, like someone just realizing how drunk he is after downing far too much hard liquor; his face is indeed growing paler. A thin sweat is already starting to crawl down from the edges of his hairline.

“Quite well,” he says, in a strangled tone of voice that suggests he is in fact leaving quite well behind in a hurry. He swallows, shifts in his seat, blinks again.

A wave of vicious satisfaction washes through Aziraphale as he realizes what’s happening, which makes it easy for him to summon up an innocent smile. “What would great and mighty Jupiter have of his humble servant?” he asks sweetly.

Suspicion burns in Caligula’s eyes for a moment—and then he shifts again, takes a breath, and nearly shoves Crowley off his lap. He staggers to his feet, a move that causes the crowd to fall quiet.

In the sudden silence there’s an audible and very insistent gurgle.

The Emperor, now ashen, clutches at his stomach, mutters something incomprehensible, and nearly bolts from the room. A faint bad smell lingers in his wake; several people murmur and titter nervously. If Aziraphale were paying attention he might notice that there are a few figures, Cassius Chaerea included, who look downright disappointed that Caligula didn’t simply keel over dead.

Instead he simply looks at Crowley in wonder and delight and no small amount of admiration for the wickedest thing he’s ever seen an angel do.

(And as the party picks back up, the rumors begin to churn even more furiously than Caligula’s beleaguered guts. Anyone with half a brain can tell that Apollo is head over heels in love with the Emperor’s new favorite. Before the night is out there will be three separate betting pools on how soon Caligula will banish or execute his musician. When his bowels finish violently emptying themselves, of course.)

*

Crowley manages not to wink or grin back at Aziraphale, instead putting on his most innocent _I wonder what all that was about?_ expression for the benefit of those watching. If there’s a slight air of smugness to it, well, it’s not as though anything can be proven. And a case of the runs is the least Caligula deserves for manhandling (angelhandling?) him without permission.

A number of people suddenly want to speak with him, and Crowley consents to be led away towards the wine tables. He’s earned a drink, that’s for certain, and the further away he is from that throne the happier he is.

The gossip flows thick and fast. He loses track of the number of people who express false sympathy and suggest—slyly, indirectly—that the Emperor might have been poisoned, perhaps even by Crowley himself. Sometimes the suggestion is tinged with suspicion, sometimes with open approval. In any case Crowley is quick to say _no, no, I'm sure it is nothing serious, just a spot of gut trouble, you know how it goes, all this rich food every night, bound to happen now and then, he’ll be fine in the morning..._

There are other sly suggestions also, about Crowley’s relationship with Apollo. Those are more annoying, and border on insulting with their insinuations. Crowley manages to sound bored and dismissive rather than angry. It takes effort. He doesn’t really take any of it seriously, however, no more than any of the talk in this bright, corrupt place. He’s listening for whispers of treason or assassination, not love affairs, even his own supposed ones.

But late in the evening, Claudius pulls him aside for a moment. They talk politics for a few minutes—thankfully in a more general fashion than the other gossip-mongers, discussing the differences between Republican and Imperial rule. But Claudius is watchful, and as soon as he is apparently certain they are not overheard he changes the subject. “You have b-been kind,” he says, quickly and quietly. “That is rare, here. I m-meant to warn Ap-p-pollo, but will tell you: do n-not be so obvious.”

“Obvious?” Crowley frowns, obviously confused.

Claudius shakes his head. “I h-have not survived my family s-so long,” he says archly, “w-without learning how to h-hide. Y-our friend is t-transparent. If you would survive my n-nephew, warn him to be more cautious.”

Crowley blinks. There have been a number of references to a possible relationship between him and ‘Apollo’ tonight, but this one feels different. “Transparent?” he repeats, still obviously confused.

Claudius sighs a little, nodding to himself. “If you have n-not n-noticed he is in love with you,” he says, his voice low, “then you are the only one who has n-not. It is wr-wr-written on his face when he looks at you. Everyone sees. D-do not think the Emperor will ignore it.”

With that Claudius takes his leave, and Crowley watches the future emperor stagger away, as stunned as if Claudius had instead taken an amphora of wine and hit him over the head with it.

He remembers almost nothing of his next few conversations. After a while Crowley leaves the room altogether and wanders into the imperial gardens, where he spends the rest of the night looking up at the sky and trying to think, but he can't, because every time he tries there's just those words swirling through his dazed mind: _he is in love with you, it’s written on his face when he looks at you_. Those words, and the image of Aziraphale’s face lit up with a smile.

*

It’s halfway through the evening by the time Aziraphale catches the first whisper. Just a faint one, slithering from the mouth of a guardsman into the ear of a senator, but a demon knows treason when he hears it. The whisper winds like a ribbon from one conspirator to another, and most if not all of them exchange meaningful glances with Cassius Chaerea at some point in the evening.

For an hour he merely listens, following that thin bright thread of discontent. But when he sets his lyre aside and gets up to mingle with the rest of the partygoers, a man he recognizes as a consul pulls him aside. Cassius would have a word with bright Apollo.

A strange kind of calm settles over the demon as he lets the consul lead him into a small private room, where Cassius sits with two or three others. Immediately Aziraphale finds himself aware that every man here carries a small sharp dagger; candlelight winks off of every blade in the room.

“What can I do for you?” he asks, with the same mild air he often uses to address Caligula.

Cassius shifts in his seat, glances at his co-conspirators, clears his throat. Aziraphale can practically feel the man working up his courage, weighing the risk in the situation. Temptation hangs in every fold of Cassius’ clothes, winds his shoulders tight with tension.

At last he looks Aziraphale in the eye and says quietly, “The emperor must die.”

And Aziraphale smiles the smile of a cat with some helpless small creature at its mercy.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he replies. “What can I do to help?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was short and tense! Apologies for the long delay between chapters, lockdown brain is A Thing and I honestly wasn't aware of how long it'd been. 
> 
> I'd apologize also for the cliffhanger, but honestly we're not sorry about that. ;) - Ashfae
> 
>  **Ashfae** can be found at [tumblr](https://ashfae.tumblr.com/), Goose in PMs to **mostlyjustgoose** here in A03, or both of us can be found in comments if you leave us one. Concrit, capital letters, and random keysmashes are all entirely welcome. Take care of yourselves and each other. (from an approved social distancing measure, of course!)


	15. Rome, January 24th, AD 41 (Morning)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The assassination of Caligula, and what happens after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Minor character death, murder, assassination, general bloodshed and mayhem. Child endangerment. (Only endangerment. The subtitle of the fic is still "A and C rescue kids throughout history").
> 
>  **Edit** : Footnotes fixed now, sorry about that! Dear self, do not post things at 3am.

They spend the better part of the night discussing logistics. As it turns out, they’ll have a perfect opportunity that very morning: the Palatine Games are scheduled to begin, and the Emperor has already indicated that he wants his musician in attendance with him. Aziraphale knows the palace well enough by now that he can pick out a properly secluded corridor, far enough from the patrols of the Emperor’s loyal Germanic Guard to ensure they can’t get to him quickly.

Naturally, bright Apollo will provide the distraction that lures Caligula into their trap.

By the time he leaves their meeting it’s nearly dawn. The party has broken up; Crowley is nowhere to be found. Aziraphale briefly considers bribing a few street cats to find him, but there isn’t much time, and getting cats to do anything like an organized search is... well, like herding cats.

Having spent most of the previous night on a far more humble throne than he’s accustomed to, Caligula is in a foul mood when he comes to meet with Aziraphale. Clearly he hasn’t slept much; his jaw is set and his eyes dark with malice.

Aziraphale is, by now, excellent at the human art of small talk. He asks cheerfully after his Emperor’s health, proclaims himself thrilled to be attending the Palatine Games for the first time, talks idly of the day’s schedule. Caligula responds in single syllables as he walks beside his musician, through hallways and down stairs, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“Oh—and of course there’s the acting troupe that will be performing in the afternoon,” Aziraphale remarks mildly, as they approach a particular corner. “You’ll like them, I think.”

He can practically feel Caligula’s angry sideways glance burning into him.

“I would speak with you,” the Emperor nearly growls, “about last night.”

“Of course, Divine Emperor. But first I think there’s something you should see.”

They round the corner, and Caligula stops in his tracks as he realizes he’s suddenly face to face with Cassius Chaerea. Not just Cassius, either, but nearly a dozen men, all with daggers drawn.

“Incidentally,” Aziraphale says, watching realization dawn on the Emperor’s face, “I quit.”

As he turns his back, he hears the first blow land, hears Caligula make a strangled noise of rage. He doesn’t have to look back to know it was Cassius who struck first, or that the scuffling noises behind him are the other conspirators falling on the Emperor like a pack of ravenous wolves. The walls ring with angry shouting as he walks away—the assassins cursing Caligula, who is in turn struggling to scream for his loyal guards.

Only once he’s out of their sight does he begin to run.

*

Crowley walks into chaos.

It’s as though the Praetorian Guard have suddenly run mad. They’re swarming through the halls, all of them, shouting and even fighting each other. Servants are screaming and cowering to the side, and members of the Senate are run through the halls, many of them chased by the guard and cut down as they flee. It does not take any great intelligence to guess what’s happened.

_Aziraphale!_

Crowley takes several steps forward, realizes he has no idea where Aziraphale might be or if he’s even still in the palace—and then stops again, putting his hands to his head.

He can’t look for Aziraphale. He _can’t_. He has a job to do, it’s the whole reason he’s here in Rome to begin with. To protect Claudius, because there is no question that whoever has gone after Caligula will also dispose of the rest of the Imperial family. All of it. And he promised Aziraphale he’d help the children get out, if he could. 

Crowley hesitates only a moment, then turns and runs for the imperial quarters, and if with every step he prays for the safety of a demon rather than the humans he’s supposed to guard, only he and the Almighty know it.

*

About halfway to the imperial family’s set of apartments, Aziraphale stumbles across Claudius. Literally stumbles—he ducks around a corner quickly to avoid a guardsman heading down the corridor, and in his haste his feet tangle on an unexpected obstacle and he falls against something much softer than a wall. It takes him a moment to realize the thing he’s grabbed to steady himself is a man’s shoulder, and that the man is Claudius. Who looks utterly terrified.

Aziraphale thinks of Crowley, talking about his assignment with a slice of peach in his hand, and makes an executive decision.

He snaps his fingers, and a nearby curtain flows down off the wall, wrapping itself around the Emperor’s uncle like a cloak—complete with a fold like a hood to hide the man’s face.

“Come on,” he says, low and urgent. “I’m going to get you out of here. Alive.”

He takes a moment to pull off the silver laurels that mark him as a favored member of Caligula’s court, to miracle up an air of utter unimportance to drape over them the way the curtain draped itself over Claudius, before he starts to hurry the man off down the hall.

*

Crowley isn’t the only one heading for the imperial quarters, and he doesn’t get there first. The palace halls are littered with bodies. The conspiracy looks to have run deeper than merely a few discontented members of the guard, which is no surprise; what is a surprise is how enraged the loyalists are, hunting down assassins even to the point of killing whoever happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, for a definition that includes ‘anywhere in or around the palace, right now.’

One guard swings a sword at Crowley, who sidesteps and absently snaps his fingers, sending the man to sleep. It’s tempting to do the same to the whole damned palace,[1] but Heaven would likely not approve of such an expenditure, especially since he was supposed to be watching Claudius more closely than he has been...

Crowley suppresses the pang of worried guilt by running faster, grateful for the first time that Caligula put him in this ridiculous Diana costume. There’s one thing to be said for chitons: they’re excellent for running in.

The assassins are already there when he reaches his goal, to go by the screaming. Crowley dashes in and takes in the scene: two women dead on the floor (one of them he quickly identifies as Caligula’s wife), another screaming (slave, by her dress), and two guardsmen with swords, one of them—

—one of them holding up a screaming infant by her foot, arm flung back as though to swing, and—

Crowley’s eyes flash with white fire, and for a moment he _burns_.

Later the slavewoman will be questioned, but all she will remember is seeing her mistress and a fellow slave cut down before her, one of the guards picking up Caligula’s daughter to slay the child next, and then… light. Only that, a blinding white light. By the time it fades the two guards will have vanished (they are never seen again [2]), and Julia Drusilla likewise is gone.

Meanwhile Crowley keeps running through the palace searching for Claudius, somewhat more hampered by the burden of a now surprisingly happy one-year-old who rests her head on his shoulder with complete trust as she sucks on her thumb.

*

There isn’t time for Aziraphale to grab his flute or another instrument, to play distraction or a message or anything that might be heard above the sudden frenzy of bloodlust. Crowley was right: this is less a ruckus and more a free-for-all.

 _Crowley._ For a moment he nearly slips into panic; he hasn’t seen the angel anywhere, and the palace is nearly a gauntlet of swords. Terrible images flash across his mind’s eye, images stark enough to tighten his heart and cut his breath—

_No. Focus. We have an arrangement. He’ll keep his part of the bargain if I keep mine._

_He’s all I can have faith in._

Aziraphale keeps hold of Claudius’ arm, picking his way through side corridors and occasionally ducking into doorways to avoid the flash and clatter of blades. Already the air smells hot and metallic; the smell only seems to grow stronger whenever Claudius stumbles. Thankfully the veil of unimportance holds, letting them slide past larger rooms where all the pent-up rage and frustration Caligula stoked in others has boiled over into a small war.

(He tries not to look at the bloodstains on the walls, on the floor. He tries not to think about the souls other than Caligula’s being pulled into Hell. He tries not to think about anything except getting to safety.)

The path they take is, out of pure necessity, rather roundabout. If Aziraphale can get Claudius to one of the servants’ entrances, he can ensure the man has a place to hide until the massacre burns itself out. And though it feels like an eternity of creeping a few feet at a time, interspersed with a few seconds of outright sprinting, it’s only minutes before he finally spots a doorway he recognizes. It’s not far from the stables either, he realizes, and with his heart in his throat he peers around a corner to make sure no one’s watching—

The figure has its back to him, but he would know the set of those slim shoulders and that fall of long hair anywhere.

“Crowley!”

*

Crowley whirls. His hair was braided into an intricate crown at the beginning of the evening but has long since escaped its confines, although the crescent moon of Diana still decorates his brow. Sweat and the smeared remnants of silver paint cover his face, but even so his expression is clear, and one of profound relief. Impossible to mistake that voice, and he’s rarely been so glad to hear it.

“Aziraphale!”

There are more children following him now. Crowley’s swept through all the imperial apartments searching for Claudius, and if he didn’t find them, he found other members of the family. One of Claudius’ daughters is now in his train, holding her baby sister; a four-year-old boy has Crowley’s free hand, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. They all look breathless and rushed, but surprisingly unafraid. Two women are also following, both easily recognized from the court: Claudius’ heavily pregnant wife Messalina, and the boy’s mother, Agrippina. The older girl gives a small cry of recognition and runs to her father, who embraces her and her sister both; the women follow more slowly, Agrippina supporting Messalina around the waist.

Crowley, of course, goes immediately to Aziraphale, almost giddy in relief and gratitude. “Look!” He nods his head to all the children around him—around them, now—and smiles broadly. “Didn’t even need your flute to collect them. But if you have a cave to hide them in, that’d be helpful.”

Claudius looks up at this, shaking his head. “The a-army,” he says. “T-take us there. They’ll be l-loyal.” When Crowley looks dubious, Claudius smiles grimly. “I’ll p-pay them for it.”

*

With every human soul Aziraphale sees trailing after Crowley, his heart lifts a little further—it’s a considerable group to keep together under the circumstances, but he’s done it. The clever bastard’s actually done it. He’s even got the Emperor’s daughter snug in his arms.

It’s probably a good thing Claudius speaks up then; it yanks Aziraphale’s mind back to the urgency of the moment at hand. Swiftly he casts his otherworldly senses out across the palace: it doesn’t take long to find the glow of loyalty, or at least the warmth of soft-hearted souls, and to send a soundless whisper into their ears. Within minutes, he knows, they’ll come running.

“You’d better go with them.” He’s reluctant to say it, but—Claudius is Crowley’s assignment. Though come to think of it, there is one other way he can help with that.

With a snap of his fingers he conjures a large woven basket, lined with soft white wool fabric—a basket just big enough for a baby.

“Here—I’ll take her,” he says, nodding to the baby snuggled against Crowley’s chest. “Someplace quiet.”

*

“How’d you do that?” the boy demands at once, looking from Aziraphale to the basket. No one else was watching the miracle, but he looks suspicious. Crowley grimaces and waves a hand, and all the humans find their attention suddenly diverted for a few moments. It’ll save some tedious explanations that there really isn’t time for.

“Yeah, think you’d better,” he agrees reluctantly, disengaging Julia Drusilla’s arms from around his neck. She whimpers and flails a hand at his face, and Crowley smiles at her for a moment. “I know. But I can’t keep you with me, and you wouldn’t like it much if I did, I move around too often. My friend will find a safe place for you.”

He touches her nose. She wrinkles it and then yawns, and is asleep before he’s even placed her in the basket. Crowley sighs, a weight settling on his shoulders, and looks back at Aziraphale. “I was too late to help her mother,” he says quietly. “Can you take her out of Rome? Far out of Rome. She should have better than—” He waves a hand. “All this. She’d never be safe here, not after today. And the less she knows about her father, the better.”

*

“Of course.” Already he has the very beginnings of a plan; with luck it shouldn’t take more than a day or two to complete, and Aziraphale has gotten quite good at making his own luck.

But all at once it occurs to him that they probably won’t see each other again outside of this palace, not for a while. That it could be a long time before they have the chance to have a meal together, or swap stories, or laugh together.

A sudden strange panic rises up through his chest, tightening his lungs, making him almost painfully aware of every heartbeat.

“Crowley?”

*

Crowley looks relieved at that _of course_ , though he expected nothing else. He smiles, fleeting but bright. Whatever else comes of the day’s work, they’ll have rescued this small soul, who otherwise would definitely have been doomed. Maybe it’s not much, but it feels like something. She’ll have a better life wherever she ends up than she would have here as Caligula’s daughter.

Aziraphale’s face changes to something Crowley can’t read, however, and he frowns, concerned. “What?”

*

That frown is so much like the gentle concern Crowley showed him eight years ago in a garden that Aziraphale’s pulse is knocked off-rhythm for a moment. If he were thinking more clearly, he would conjure up some lighthearted goodbye, perhaps suggest a place to rendezvous later.

The problem is, he hasn’t been able to think clearly since that night. No number of human partners, no acts of delicious debauchery, have been enough to make him forget the gentle clasp of an angel’s thin arms around him. No earthly pleasure, however exquisite, has been enough to blur out the memory of watching Crowley try a fig. No music can disguise how every beat of his heart has shaped the syllables of Crowley’s name since Babel.

And they might not see each other for a thousand years.

With the hand not holding the baby’s basket, Aziraphale grabs a fistful of Crowley’s chiton and hauls him in.

His kiss is neither soft nor gentle. It’s desperate, his mouth pressing hard against the angel’s, urgent. He kisses Crowley like a drowning man kisses air, greedy and instinctive and graceless. And it’s not a goodbye kiss, either—this is a kiss that says _I need you to know something, and this is the only way I can tell you._

For just a moment, the world around them goes totally silent.

*

Crowley expected words. A warning to be careful, advice on how to handle cutthroat Roman politics, a wish for good luck, some place they could hopefully find each other later if all goes well… whatever Crowley expected, this wasn’t it.

He’s too astonished to respond, at first, even to close his eyes. The first moment is entirely blank, his mind still, all questions shocked right out of him. Those will come later.

The second moment could best be summarized as: _...oh. I didn’t know that._

The third has him close his eyes, open his mouth a little in surprise, his attention suddenly and amazingly focused only on this, Aziraphale’s mouth on his, their breath mingling. He’s never been so fiercely aware of Aziraphale’s body near his, the solid heat of it. He’s never been so aware of anything. He’s never—

The moments end much too soon, the stillness around them crashing back into motion with a sound of many running footsteps approaching, the metallic sounds of weapons and armor. Crowley gasps and pulls back, breaking the kiss. He glances towards the source of the racket, then back at Aziraphale.

Crowley reaches up a hand and covers the one still fisted in his chiton, squeezes it hard, and loosens it. “Go,” he says in a low voice. “Get her safe. Stay safe.” For one too brief moment he leans forward and rests his head against the demon’s. “Aziraphale.”

Too much to say, to ask, and no time for any of it. Several sandaled feet turn the corner, and the spell is broken. Claudius looks up, as do all the family gathered around him, wondering if this is friend or foe. Crowley steps back to join them, looking pained. “Go, quickly,” he whispers.

*

There’s no time to say anything important. Aziraphale’s head is still swimming as his senses try to process those few searing seconds of kissing an angel; the first breath he draws when Crowley pulls back feels like the first one he’s ever taken.

But there is one thing he can scrape up the presence of mind to say.

“I’ll see you again.”

It’s a promise and an apology, and the weight of everything behind the words turns his voice ragged. _I will. I’ll find you, somehow, somewhere in the world. This isn’t the last time, and I’ll make sure of it if it kills me._

One last look, and then he’s gone, leaving behind only a faint whiff of brimstone.

* * *

When he reappears it’s in a part of the world that will later come to be known as Ireland. It’s outside of the Empire’s reach, and likely will be for at least one human lifetime, if not longer. There’s snow on the ground now, but Aziraphale can already tell that in the spring the countryside will be vibrant.

It doesn’t take him long to find a village. Night has barely fallen when he hears a desperate prayer go whispering by him—not directed at the Almighty, but to anyone who might be listening, no matter how risky that might be. 

_Please. All I’ve ever wanted is a child to love. I’ve known I wanted to be a father since I was a boy myself. My wife weeps every spring, when every ewe and cow and mare has a new life to tend and she has none. I can’t bear this loneliness we share, this love we cannot give._

Most demons would see this as a perfect opportunity—one little miracle and you can be guaranteed two souls, bought and paid for with an infant’s cry.

Aziraphale sets the basket down outside their front door as the moon begins to rise. He knocks once, and vanishes again when he hears someone lift the latch.

( _What becomes of Julia Drusilla next?_ you might ask. History dismisses her as dead and gone, so really, you can imagine whatever you like. But whatever else happens when her story diverges from that of an angel and a demon, she is loved. She has someone to soothe her when she cries, and to smile when she laughs, and to sit with her quietly when she needs respite from the noise of the world. Whatever you imagine next, this is the most important part: someone sees her as a person rather than a pawn in a great Imperial game, and loves her simply for existing.)

*

Crowley only remains in Rome for another few weeks. It's enough time to see Claudius crowned and secure on his throne—or, as Claudius himself points out, as secure as any emperor ever is, which is not much. But already he fills the role well, despite disinclination and his own personal preference for a Republican rule. Decades of watching his family at each other’s throats has taught him how to play the games of politics, and his own studies in history and law have taught him what Rome needs. And as he foretold, he has the army’s support.

A good thing too, because before long Heaven contacts Crowley and orders him to Damascus, to intercept a man on his way there from Jerusalem. Before he leaves Rome he visits Aziraphale’s villa, letting his eyes linger on the frescos, the musical instruments, the room where they shared a meal. He considers leaving a note, but it’s too risky. Hell could come first, or Heaven, or Aziraphale might simply never return to see it.

_I'll see you again._

He thinks about taking something from Aziraphale's villa, something to keep as a souvenir, anything, but in the end all he takes is those four words.

From Damascus Crowley keeps going, as directed. Britannia. China. Egypt. Constantinople. Gupta. Teotihuacan. And so on, and on, and on...

Years pass, then decades, but there’s always a part of him watching for cloud-fluff hair, a white plumed tail, impossible blue eyes. Listening for a familiar laugh or a strand of music. He has no idea what he’ll do when he sees it, hears it, when Aziraphale finds him. He has no idea which question to ask first, what answer he wants to hear.

Crowley and his questions wander for a long time, and he loses himself in work as much as he can. It’s amazing how little it does to erode the memory of a demon’s mouth covering his.

  


* * *

  


1. He will give in and do eventually, in fact, on a particularly irritating occasion in a manor house in Italy during the 16th Century, stories of which will grow and grow and eventually reach the ears of Giambattista Basile, who will pen a version entirely unlike what actually happened. Crowley will spend more than one evening with Aziraphale ranting about it all.↩

2. They reappear in a forest somewhere in what will later be called Switzerland, somehow manage not to freeze to death, and live long lives during which they never, ever tell anyone how they came to get there.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. FRIKKING FINALLY. Believe that you could not possibly have been as impatient for that kiss as we were. There was cheering. It took us 15 chapters, 80,000 words, and several thousand years BUT FINALLY THERE IS A KISS.
> 
> We've taken liberties with Roman history here. For one thing, Agrippina the Younger (who later will go on to marry and murder Claudius, aren't Roman politics fun?) and her then four-year-old son Nero were actually in exile at the time, not in Rome. But we couldn't resist having Nero present. Yet another time Crowley and Aziraphale's good intentions come back to bite them, or at least Rome. Similarly we make no apologies for rescuing Julia Druscilla. What's the point of rewriting history if you can't fix a few things?
> 
> **Ashfae** can be found at [tumblr](https://ashfae.tumblr.com/), Goose in PMs to **mostlyjustgoose** here in A03, or both of us can be found in comments if you leave us one. Stay safe, stay strong.


	16. Interlude: Five Hundred Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I will see you again_ , Aziraphale promised. But when, and how, and where?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: More gender-switching; if you have gender dysphoria, be aware. Also mentions of madness/berserker traits.

The Wart woke up and regretted it, first of all because he was very hungry and second of all because he felt as though he’d slept on a bed made of dirt and small rocks. The reason for the first was because he was a young boy, and as such a combination of awkward limbs, endless questions, and a perpetually empty stomach, not necessarily in that order. The reason for the second was because he had indeed slept on a bed made of dirt and small rocks, only without the bed bit.

Still, it’d been an interesting experience, and he always liked those. Though he very much hoped he could find his lost bird and return to the castle soon. It was the wrong time of year for berries or nuts, and he didn’t much fancy his chances at catching some other kind of food with just his bare hands. And he really didn’t see how he was to find the missing bird, or how to capture it when he did, or how to find his way back home once he had. The day was one great unknown. Not an unappealing idea in the abstract, but in this specific instance of not having slept well and being short on anything resembling breakfast it had a lot less appeal.

He was much more likely to find the bird (and breakfast) if he got up and looked than if he stayed here, however. So the Wart got up and brushed dirt off his clothes (and hands, and hair, and everything) as best he could, then set out in search of whatever he might find.

What he found was a small creek and a very odd man standing next to it. 

He didn’t seem all that odd at first. Tall, maybe, and wearing something more like robes than the more usual clothes, but some preferred that, especially wise men. But the white of the robes was spotless, which the Wart (who had done quite a lot of scrubbing things in his time) would have sworn was impossible. Also he was perfectly pristine despite standing in the middle of the forest, and finally he had the Wart’s lost bird on his arm, which was nothing short of miraculous. 

“Cully!” The Wart burst forth in relief, forgetting all other strangeness. The bird hopped a little, but the man reached up his free hand and stroked the goshawk’s crest, and it settled. The Wart almost bounced on his feet, even though he was really too old for that these days. “Oh, thank you, I’ve been looking for him everywhere. Kay told me he was lost but Hob would have been too sad to bear if I couldn’t bring him back. How did you find him?”

The man chuckled a little and kept stroking between Cully’s eyes, which was actually very impressive. Cully wouldn’t even let Kay do that, only Hob and the Wart, who he trusted. But he accepted this stranger’s finger without fear. “Cully?” the stranger repeated. “Oh, he tried to eat me. But I led him on a bit of a chase and once he’d tired out we were able to reach an understanding of sorts. He asked me to wait for you.”

The Wart had not expected this answer, and looked the man over with new eyes. “Are you a magician?” He didn’t think the man could be even if he was wearing robes. Magicians had strange symbols all over their clothes, and odd hats, and the Wart expected they ate boys, like dragons did. But this man didn’t seem inclined to eat anyone, and Cully was all but purring at him.

“A magician?” The man laughed a bit. “No, I’m not that. Though I could pretend to be one, if you like. Your name is Wart, I expect?” The Wart was a little surprised by this, but not as much as he might have been. He was beginning to accept that it was a very strange morning. He nodded, and the man smiled and reached into a pocket. “Do you like apples?”

“Yes,” the Wart said, inwardly wondering if there was anyone in the world who didn’t like apples. “Very much. But it’s too early in the year for them, which is too bad, because that would have made a very good breakfast, and I haven’t any.”

“Hmm.” The man’s eyes were very keen as he looked the Wart up and down, but the Wart didn’t notice, his eyes being riveted on the apple the man had just pulled out of his pocket. It was lovely, large and shiny and perfectly ripe and absolutely mouthwatering in every respect. “I’m looking for Sir Ector’s castle. Know the way?”

“Normally I do,” the Wart said, with regret, wishing he might have traded the information for the apple. “But right now I’m afraid I don’t. I’ve gotten a bit lost. Though just a bit.”

“Ah.” The not-a-magician grinned and tossed him the apple. It bounced off Wart’s hand, but he caught it again before it fell to the ground. “Fortunately, I’m not lost. Between the two of us we can probably manage our way there.”

That didn’t seem to make sense to the Wart, but he was more than a little distracted by his apple, which he immediately bit into. It was _delicious_ , even by the usual standards of apples and unexpected gifts of food during hungry hours. He’d eaten a full half of it before he remembered to ask, “What do you want with Sir Ector?”

“Heard he’d advertised for a tutor. Thought I’d apply.”

“Really?” The Wart looked briefly excited, then his face fell. “Oh. Only, Sir Ector said there’d need to be a Quest to find one, so I’m not sure you can be until that’s happened.”

The not-a-magician chuckled again, raising an eyebrow. “You left the castle yesterday, right?” The Wart nodded. “Searching for something you’d lost?” The Wart nodded again. The man looked amused. “Whereupon you got lost, had a bit of an adventure looking for food and shelter and generally doing without the things you’re used to, and now you’ve found what you lost, plus something you didn’t know you wanted to find. Sounds like a successful Quest to me.” 

“Oh!” The Wart thought about this, then beamed. “I didn’t know you could be on a Quest without realizing.”

“Trust me, that’s how most of them work.” The man grinned again, and the Wart grinned back. “You can call me Merlin.”

“I’m the Wart,” said the Wart, unselfconscious of his own less-than-flattering name. “Oh, but you know that.” He wrinkled his nose. “How did you know that?”

“I know a lot of things,” said Merlin. “Which is handy, if I’m going to be your tutor. What did Sir Ector say he wanted a tutor for?”

The Wart shrugged. “Something about teaching us Latin and not letting us run around like hooligans. You’d probably have to teach us what hooligans are, so we can not be them.”

Merlin smiled. “I think I can manage that. Might teach you a few other things while I’m at it.”

The Wart could hardly wait.

Years later there is a stone and a sword, and a boy suddenly given a crown and a name, and Crowley looks at the boy—a young man now, really, but still thoughtful and earnest and curious and so very, very overwhelmed—and remembers a night long ago when he told a demon that no one could fix the world on their own. Arthur, at the very least, won’t be alone; Crowley will make sure of that.

Even so, he looks over the crowd, still hoping against hope to see a shock of white-blond hair or hear a particular thread of melody, remembering a promise made and not yet kept. 

_I’ll see you again._

Crowley waits, and works, and hopes.

*

The first hundred years are a torment unlike anything Hell could ever invent.

Every day Aziraphale looks for the angel. In cities, in gardens, on lonely hillsides, everywhere he happens to be. And every time he catches a glimpse of someone who might be Crowley, his heart races and his mouth goes dry—except it’s never Crowley.

Hope nearly exhausts him. It catches him off-guard on assignments, and sits uncomfortably in his chest whenever he has to make a report; it stays several dancing steps ahead of him, mocking his clumsy pursuit.

At last, one night in the Germanic countryside, he flops down on a hill and stares at the stars above, and has a good long think.

Part of him is desperately afraid that Crowley’s been punished for that kiss, or for their arrangement. Even though no angels Fall, that’s hardly the only form of discipline. For a century he’s struggled in secret with the thought that he might have caused some terrible trouble to the one person he’s ever loved—which is every bit as excruciating as the hope that they’ll meet again.

He can’t keep turning this over in his head, worrying in circles. He’ll go mad if he has to endure another hundred years of this. It takes him a while to get there, but as the moon is beginning to dip toward the horizon he comes to a resolution: he’ll focus on where he is and what he’s doing, if only because Crowley would hate to see him miserable.

Work helps to convince him he’s distracted himself, for a while. But around the end of the fifth century he finds himself agitated for no real reason—itchy, restless, eager for a change.

So Aziraphale decides to do something different.

Being male has always felt like the most natural option when he’s been in a human body. After four thousand years it’s what he knows best; he’s never felt quite as casually comfortable switching back and forth between genders as Crowley. But he realizes he’s never been female for more than a few hours at a time, and maybe sticking with it for a while could be enlightening.

As she moves across Europe she leaves legends in her wake. Peasants who spot her in the swooning heat of a summer afternoon name her Lady Midday; shivering farmers who see her white hair gleaming on snowy nights name her Mother Hulda. During a few brief assignments in Japan, the travelers who happen to see her under the winter moon name her Yuki-Onna. Everywhere she goes, a local story pops up—an ice spirit, a beautiful wraith, a merciless fae queen. She rather likes that last one, actually, and plays into it: sometimes she braids silver into her curls, which have grown long, and she wears a white veil for the dramatic effect it has when she lets humans see her eyes clearly. It’s the most fun she’s had in ages, even if she does still miss Crowley.

Then, on her way through Brittany to England, something world-altering happens.

A woman in torn and bloodied velvet cries for her aid from the side of the road Aziraphale is traveling. She proclaims herself to be the Queen of Benoic, and the wailing babe in her arms her son by the noble King Ban, most foully murdered this very night. Aziraphale is suddenly and powerfully reminded of a chaotic morning in Rome, of Crowley’s fingertip stroking an infant’s nose.

“Let me take the boy,” she says. “My name is—” There’s a brief skip as she racks her brain. “Lady Viviane. [1] I am a sorceress of great power, and I will raise him to be a noble knight and to avenge his father’s death.”

 _And to be a pagan king_ , she adds in her reports to Hell, as justification. They seem somewhat doubtful, but she assures them that he’ll be a perfect agent of chaos. She’ll teach him to be a tempter, a mischief-maker, and he’ll bring down a great ruler someday.

The widowed Queen weeps in mingled sorrow and relief as she shifts her son into the arms of his new foster mother.

“His name,” she sobs, “is Lancelot.”

*

The next forty-nine years are some of the best of her long existence so far. And some of the most difficult.

Once Aziraphale arrives in England with her son, it doesn’t take long for her to find an abandoned castle on an attractively mysterious lake. A few minor miracles later and she’s got a perfectly comfortable home; after making a circuit of several nearby towns she’s gained herself a small human retinue, all of them pagans. It’s the work of less than a month to establish herself as an enchantress of fae descent,[2] raising a human boy as her own.

It’s fascinating to watch a baby human grow, to see him become a person a little at a time. Even sleeping Lancelot is interesting, his tiny fingers curling and uncurling, his face moving through emotions she can only guess at as he dreams. But when he’s awake there’s so much they can do together, so many things she can watch him learn.

She holds his hands to help him take his first steps. She sits him on her lap, her fingers on his, as she shows him how to make the harp sing. She teaches him to read and write. He learns to fight, too, and to ride, to swim and hunt and sit still enough that wild animals will eat out of his hand. 

(He calls her _Mama_ and then _Mother_ , even after she’s told him about his birth parents. She introduces him to the Queen of Benoic, now living in quiet withdrawal at an abbey in Brittany; he’s kind to her, as courteous as anyone might desire of a dutiful son, and he does avenge his long-dead father. Still he tells everyone his mother is Lady Viviane, and it’s her castle at the Lake he visits when he wants to spend time with family.)

Lancelot learns other things from watching Aziraphale, too, much to Aziraphale’s surprise. He masters the art of looking adorably harmless and innocent very early, especially when something in the castle ends up mysteriously broken. When she overhears him playing with the handful of children who live on the grounds, she notes with surprised pride that they declare he has the best ideas for their games. One night when Lancelot is six years old he brings an orphaned fox kit out of the woods, and somehow he actually wiles Aziraphale into letting him keep the blessed thing. [3]

As he becomes a young man he learns how to be a casual tempter like his mother. Charm comes easily to him. Maidens and stable boys alike blush at his broad smile and his plain, warm way of speaking. It doesn’t hurt that he goes from gangly awkward pre-teen into suddenly handsome and somewhat less awkward teenager in what seems like record time for a human.

(This is not to say it’s all easy. Sometimes Lancelot will fall into silent, thoughtful melancholy, far away from her in his thoughts. More than once while he’s learning to fight he goes into some sort of fog that renders him a thoughtless, bloodthirsty creature; afterwards he’s always contrite and upset. He has nightmares at random intervals, and won’t tell her what they’re about. The course of parenting never does run smooth, even for a demon. But Aziraphale learns to do what human mothers do: make an effort and hope for the best.)

When he’s eighteen, she rides with him to Camelot. King Arthur is ambitious, idealistic, not much older than her own boy; she’s heard he has a wizard at his beck and call, some fellow named Merlin, but this Merlin is apparently off in another corner of the world on mysterious wizard errands when she arrives. But neither Arthur nor his absent magician take up much of Aziraphale’s thoughts that day. Lancelot wants to serve at the King’s Round Table, and he’s come to present himself and his (not yet numerous, but truly impressive) deeds to the court. 

She watches her little boy, now grown strong and tall, kneel at the feet of his king; she watches him rise Sir Lancelot of the Lake.

Before she leaves, she presents King Arthur with a gift: a sword, forged by a master craftsman and exquisitely beautiful. She hasn’t blessed or cursed it, only given it a name—Excalibur. But as she watches the King withdraw it from its scabbard and hold it up to see it gleam in the brilliance of morning, she’s suddenly aware of a surge of something powerful. Belief, sparking in the hearts of humans, lighting up Excalibur’s blade with all the might of an actual blessing.

Despite all her careful instruction in the local pagan customs, Lancelot decides to follow Christ immediately upon being accepted into King Arthur’s court. But he’s still charming and quick-witted and mischievous, at home in the pleasures of the world.

(And secretly, in the hidden innermost chambers of her heart, she’s proud that he’s kind and generous and brave, that he was all those things before he converted. Somehow she’s raised a good man.)

He visits her at least once a year; she can always spot the moon-bright gleam of his armor from across the Lake. Whenever he’s home he has a wealth of new stories to tell—about his new friends, his deeds, his King. As the years roll by, Aziraphale begins to hear the shape of a story in his silences, too. When they speak of his friends who marry or have children, something warm and wistful kindles behind Lancelot’s eyes. Though he sometimes brings one of his fellow knights to visit, he never speaks of any one in particular with a special fondness; similarly he never indicates that any lady at court, high- or low-born, has caught his fancy. There is someone in Lancelot’s thoughts—Aziraphale has known too many humans in love not to recognize it in her own son—but he keeps those thoughts guarded even around his mother.

At age forty-four he comes home grave and troubled, and only stays three days. The next year he seems even more agitated, even before he dismounts to greet her—but this time he breaks down in tears after dinner, begging his mother’s forgiveness for sins he won’t name. Aziraphale gathers him into her arms the way she did when he was small, and rocks him while he sobs, murmuring comfort to him as best she can. Lancelot can only manage broken fragments: something about love, something about treason. They clatter together in her brain, creating chords that sound eerily familiar; Aziraphale tries hard not to hear them humming beneath her son’s desperate weeping. 

It’s an exhausting night. By the time Lancelot falls asleep, curled up in her embrace just as surely as if he were still a frightened child, Aziraphale is drained. For the first time in centuries sleep flows over her, swift and inevitable as the tide.

She dreams of Falling, screaming her voice out in a million million fragments, helpless and terrified. The heat of the Pit sears across her senses, reaching up to take her—

—and then she jolts awake, alone.

None of the servants see Lancelot leave. His horse is simply gone, along with his suit of armor. There’s no note, no token, no message left. But folk in the nearby village testify that they’ve spotted him riding towards Camelot. As desperately as she wants to follow him, he’s no longer a boy; his problems can’t be solved with a hug and a minor miracle or two. 

(Still, her tears flash and burn in the darkness of her room that night, creating a light like the flutter of a candle flame that lasts till dawn.)

For the next three years she only hears rumors of her son. Humans, for all their cleverness, are unreliable narrators, and no two of them tell her the same story about Lancelot. Some say he’s still the champion of the lists, still searching for the Holy Grail; some say he’s not been seen in Camelot for years, that he’s run mad and left the court behind. She doesn’t know what to believe—all she can tell for sure is that his soul is still among the living. She travels to search for him and finds nothing but more rumors.

Then the black knight comes staggering up the path to the Lake.

She doesn’t recognize him at first, even though his helmet is gone. His silver armor no longer gleams: weather and neglect have turned the metal dark, with great tarry patches blooming across it. Even his gait is different—broken, weighted down by despair. He gibbers and mutters to himself, strikes out almost drunkenly at others around him. But once he sees her, his expression breaks; his frame goes limp. He sobs out a single word: _Mama._

It takes months to nurse his battered body and mind back to health. Little by little, at Lancelot’s own pace, she puts together the story: he is desperately in love with Queen Guinevere. She cannot leave her husband, and he cannot love her openly, not in a Christian court—even if Arthur doesn’t mind. To make matters worse, his son Galahad is of age to be a knight himself, and his devotion to holiness shames Lancelot.

Why, he asks tearfully, does he have to love only once, and that someone he could never have, and then become aware of his own flaws through their absence in his child?

(Why, Aziraphale asks the stars in silence, must her son suffer in love the way she does? Why can he, at least, not have what he wants? What has he done to deserve this pain she cannot miracle away?)

Aziraphale holds him, as she did when he was little and he had nightmares. She listens, and when he doesn’t want to talk she plays the harp or the flute for him. When he wants silence, she gives him that too. An inch at a time, just as he grew within the walls of their castle, he heals.

At last he tells her he’s ready to go back to court, to face his King and Queen and his son. He’ll never get better if he doesn’t confront and conquer the source of his wounds.

As she did when he’d first presented himself to Arthur, she accompanies him to Camelot. They ride side-by-side on white horses, and even in the thin and watery light of an overcast morning they both shine: Lancelot in his immaculate suit of polished silver armor, Aziraphale in a white samite gown with gold embroidery, her white curls and veil like a cloud that wreathes head and shoulders.

They’re received with some surprise at the stables—Sir Lancelot has not been at court for years, and his lady mother has only visited once. The guards nearly trip over their own feet rushing towards the throne room to give the news to the King and the other knights: _Sir Lancelot has returned, and with him his mother, the Lady of the Lake._ [4]

*

It’s been a hard year.

The sixth century[5] is one of the more interesting ones Crowley has experienced, for all its trials. It’s rare that he’s able to spend so much time with any particular human, much less able to have so close a relationship with one. But to Arthur he’s teacher, mentor, counsellor, friend, and “the only person I can count on to always ask the questions no one else will ask,” as Arthur himself wryly puts it, “though that’s less because of any particular courage or wisdom on your part and more because you’re asking them before you think not to.” To which Crowley always shrugs ruefully and says it’s just his nature, which of course it is, more than even Arthur can understand.

They’ve done well; Arthur shrugs off compliments to his leadership and virtue, saying he’s been blessed in his companions,[6] but even he is justifiably proud of Camelot. But Camelot has lost some of its shine over the past decade. Arthur is growing old, and is without heir aside from his bastard son Mordred, who is… problematic, to put it charitably. Arthur’s knights have (finally!) largely abandoned their quests for the Holy Grail, [7] but they’re growing bored and listless. And not all the knights are back. Lancelot has been gone for several years, and there have been rumors of madness that weigh heavily on both Arthur and his queen. They put on brave faces in public and comfort each other in private and each of them now and then seeks out Crowley to ask if he knows anything, if he’s seen anything of their missing friend. 

He hasn’t, and to himself Crowley can admit that he’s just as happy to have no answer to give. Lancelot has always had enough charm for any ten people, but when Crowley remembers the headaches he had trying to keep the court from exploding with rumors and intrigues when the man was around, he’s just as relieved to be ignorant about the missing knight’s whereabouts. For everyone’s sake. He likes Lancelot, very much. That doesn’t mean he’s an easy person to have around.

Even the weather has turned against them. The past year has been abominably cold and wet even by Britain’s standards, the harvests poor. Crowley’s tried to nudge things along a little, surreptitiously, but the cold is the result of a volcanic eruption somewhere and far too vast for him to counteract, not without spending much, much more miraculous power than he can spare. He’s been given a great deal of leeway in this assignment, but there are still limits.

Crowley sighs and rubs his temples, feeling the echo of one of those headaches. It’s been a long, cold winter. It’s been a long and cold few decades, even with Arthur’s friendship and more than enough work to keep an angel occupied. He misses being warm. He misses a lot of things. He misses—

“Wool-gathering again, Merlin?”

Crowley snorts, abandoning this reverie. “Do you see any sheep?” He turns to face Arthur, who leans in the doorway, smiling at his wizard. Even now Arthur radiates a compelling mix of strength and wisdom, though the boyish quality of the latter has long since been tempered by years of diplomacy, and the former finely honed by his will. He’s a remarkable man by any standards. But his hair is turning grey, and his face has more lines on it than it used to.

Arthur chuckles. “Of course not; they’re all in your head. Though no doubt you could summon a few if you wanted. Actually, do that. We could use the meat.”

Crowley smiles, but shakes his head. “Is it time already?” For the afternoon court, he means, during which newcomers and petitioners and the like present themselves to the king and queen, to introduce themselves or beg favors or demand justice or reparation. Crowley tries to be present for those, though he prefers to keep a low profile, as much as Arthur’s infamous wizard can. People distrust him more as time goes on, despite his years of loyalty and service. _Immortal_ , they say, _see how tall he stands, how unchanged his hands and face are. Born without a father, or the son of an incubus. They say he can change his shape, acts as the king’s spy in the form of an owl, can work magic, lives backwards in time, they say, they say..._

Crowley is growing very tired of all the things they say.

“It is,” Arthur confirms, walking forward and clasping his shoulder. “As you would know, if you weren’t distracted by whatever errant musings have caught you this time. What was it? The movement of stars, the color of grass, why Kay can never keep his temper?”

Crowley’s smile turns wistful. “Just trying to remember something. A song I heard once. That’s all.” He clasps Arthur’s shoulder in return. “Come on. They’ll be waiting for you.”

  


* * *

  


### Footnotes

1. At the time she thought she’d plucked it from nowhere, but later she realizes it sounds close to a word a Welshman once used to describe her. The word, fittingly enough, means “pale wanderer”.↩

2. The actual fae in the British Isles at the time, like most of the near-impossible odds and ends of creation, tend to prefer to leave humans alone. Aziraphale does maintain a friendly relationship with them, since she admires their taste for mischief.↩

3. The fox, whom Lancelot names Sir Cai Redcoat, is his constant and faithful companion for the rest of the boy’s childhood and part of his adolescence until his peaceful death at the respectable age of nine. Though prone to gales of foxy cackling and a tendency to steal bits of tender meat from the dinner table, Sir Cai is on the whole excellent company.↩

4. She did not, in fact, at any point lie in ponds distributing any sort of weaponry as a system of government.↩

5. As it’s currently counted where he is, bit hard to keep track of them all really, much less how the humans are numbering them now.↩

6. Literally true in Crowley's case, not that Crowley’s ever admitted it.↩

7. “It was just a cup, guys. No, really, I swear, I was _there_ and it was _just a cup_. Not even an exciting cup and certainly not holy. Probably ground into dust by now and even if it weren’t the only thing it’d be useful for is—oh, fine, whatever, have fun searching, at least it’ll keep you all busy for a few years and maybe we’ll have some peace and quiet around the castle for a while…”↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Yes, I blatantly raided T.H. White for my opening section, though I changed/rearranged a number of details and quotes. Blame my kids for making me watch Disney's _The Sword in the Stone_ about fifty times in a row. I regret nothing. Older Arthur is my own creation and born of a lifelong case of being smitten with/fascinated by Arthur in his various versions. Actually I'm not sure I've created him at all, he was just lurking in my head waiting to speak. Lancelot on the other hand I've always fervently disliked, but now Goose's version is a sudden exception. I may forgive them for this eventually. ;) For these chapters I'll recommend the music of Heather Dale, particularly "Kingsword" and "Exile".
> 
> If you're wondering why Crowley is going by Merlin instead of his own name, and other such questions...we'll get to that later. ;) Though I always welcome concrit, so lob it at me if you have any.
> 
> I truly apologize for the delay in posting; in addition to lockdown chaos I got VERY stuck on this part until I suddenly hit on going at it from the Wart's POV. Fortunately we have the next few chapters after this already written, so now that we're past this hurdle we'll be able to post another chapter in two weeks, and hopefully the next two weeks after that. In the meantime, be kind to yourself and one another. Please wear a mask if you're able!" - Ashfae
> 
> "When I started this fic Lancelot was my least favorite of all Arthur’s knights. Now he’s my sweet boy. Go figure. (And please check out my personal favorite version of the Arthurian legends, the excellent Guinevere Trilogy novels by Persia Woolley!) 
> 
> There’s a lot of folklore referenced here. Lady Midday comes from Slavic tradition, where she’s commonly known as Południca (and sometimes in German-speaking countries as Kornwyf). She’s essentially the personification of heat stroke and can drive you mad by showing up at the hottest part of the day to ask you a zillion questions.
> 
> Mother Hulda, as some other folklore buffs will know, is a German sort-of goddess who evolved out of pre-Christian traditions and is also known as Frau Holle. Various iterations of the character are known to protect spinners and weavers, the souls of deceased children, and witches. She is also the central figure in a Grimm fairy tale (incidentally also an amazing track on the Sound Horizon album Märchen) in which it’s explained that whenever it snows, Mother Hulda is shaking out her down comforter. 
> 
> Yuki-Onna is one of those fantastic Japanese ghost-monsters with a lot of weird variants. Sometimes she’s a moon princess who got bored of the moon. Sometimes if you’re nice to her you’ll find a stack of gold in your guest futon the next day instead of a person. Sometimes she straight up gives you the kiss of death and eats your soul out of you through your mouth. The one thing all these stories seem to have in common, though, is that a yuki-onna loooooves kids. 
> 
> Finally, the Lady of the Lake and Lancelot! The Lady has several names (and there’s another Lady of the Lake who gets beheaded by some jerk) but the Welsh connection to Viviane for Aziraphale felt appropriate. Many stories including the very early variants claim Lancelot was spirited away by the Lady as an infant without his mother’s knowledge. As for the part she plays in Lancelot’s life after that... well, you’ll have to keep reading to find out! ;D
> 
> Thanks so much for your patience during this extremely rough time. Please wear a mask!!" - Goose


	17. Sir Lancelot Returns to Camelot, AD 541

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's wizard and friend Merlin is introduced to Lancelot's mother, the Lady of the Lake. The meeting does not go as anyone expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Just going to say the gender-switching will continue through the entire Camelot section. If you have difficulty with gender/body dysphoria, please be aware.

The excitement proclaiming important news arrives before the news itself does. One of the guards runs forward and makes his announcement, and at once the words _Lancelot has returned!_ ripple through the great hall of Camelot, and no doubt further. Crowley sees how Arthur’s hands tighten on his throne’s arms, how Guinevere pales, how they look at each other—not with lidded fear or jealousy, as some assume, as most will assume, but in shared love and relief and concern that neither can show to its full extent.

Crowley sighs and rubs the back of his neck. He stands off to the side among the crowd, his white robes (so like an angel’s, an irony he finds bemusing) covered with a black floor-length cloak for warmth.[1] He’ll be glad to see Lancelot as well, truthfully; he’s been worried too. But he doesn’t look forward to the triad’s inevitable highs and lows of love and heartbreak and grief. In another life, in the past or in the future or some other part of the world, maybe they’d find some balance they could keep, some peaceful state for all three to love one another. But there’s no safe place for it here and now. Not without it leading either to Arthur losing his crown or being forced to set Guinevere aside for some other, more fertile, more ‘faithful’ choice, which no doubt would still involve years of arguing or outright warfare between the lords of the land as they negotiated who would be acceptable.

But Arthur won’t be parted from Guinevere, and Guinevere won’t leave him, not even for Lancelot. Nor will Arthur banish Lancelot, who he loves deeply, from his court; neither can Guinevere or Lancelot set their own loves aside. The stalemate had reached a fever pitch of tension before Lancelot broke under it before, almost stumbling out of the castle to join the search for the Holy Grail as much to escape an intolerable situation as in the hopes of finding some sort of Heavenly blessing.

And now he’s back.

He strides into the hall with his head high, his steps slower than they once were but as proud, his face as beautiful as it’s ever been. Half the court sighs its admiration, and Crowley purses his lips. No, it’s no surprise to him that both king and queen adore this man. But an ending approaches as he walks into the hall. Crowley’s seen a lot of endings, and can already feel the shape of this one. He'll be sorry when this assignment finally comes to its inevitable end. He’s been here long enough to set down as many roots as an angel can, but that’s the—

Crowley stops halfway through the thought as he catches sight of the person entering with Lancelot, wearing a secretive smile on his—no, her—face. He completely loses track of the small talk he was exchanging with Bedivere.[2] The blood drains from his face, a ridiculously human reaction he’s not even aware happens. His knees forget how to work and he almost collapses to the ground, swaying enough that Bedivere catches him by the arm to support him for a moment. Crowley doesn’t hear any of the questions of concern over the white roaring in his ears. Lancelot and Arthur and even his duty to Heaven are all forgotten.

Lancelot’s return is a revelation to the court, a promise of excitement and romance and mighty deeds. But no few number of people notice the reaction of Merlin when the wizard first lays eyes on the Lady of the Lake. Whether love at first sight or an enchantment, there’s no question to anyone that Arthur’s wizard is entirely captivated from that moment onwards.

*

The Lady watches with pride as Lancelot bows to his king and queen, as Arthur bids him rise and embraces him like a brother. Like any human mother, she’s gripped with a bittersweet relief in this moment—they’ll part ways again when she goes back to the Lake, but at least he’s better than he was, and he’s with people who love him nearly as much as she does.

When Lancelot steps back to introduce her, Aziraphale makes a point of pulling back the gauzy veil over her face. A few people close by gasp and murmur: the Lady has a cat’s eyes, or a serpent’s.

“Lady Viviane, you are most welcome,” Arthur says, admirably untroubled by her appearance. “And we thank you with all our hearts for bringing Lancelot back to us.”

Aziraphale can’t quite help herself; there’s real warmth in her smile.

“Noble King Arthur,” she begins, fully intending to offer him a few pretty words—and then a flash of movement at the corner of her eye catches her attention, and for just a second she glances towards it—

She suddenly can’t breathe.

Her eyes go wide; her mouth drops open. Centuries’ worth of hope and disappointment and anguish combust in silent fireworks under her skin; her heart beats like it’s trying to thrash its way out of her. She can’t feel her fingers, or most of her legs.

Frowning, Arthur turns to follow her line of sight. Lancelot lays a hand on her shoulder; she barely feels it.

“Mother?” he says softly.

*

It’s Aziraphale.

Bedivere is still looking at him with concern, and it’s Aziraphale. Arthur has turned his way and is frowning in confusion, and it’s Aziraphale. The whole damned room is staring at him and _it’s Aziraphale_. Here. Now. After five hundred years. Styled as a woman for the first time Crowley’s ever seen, with hair longer than it’s ever been and woven through with silver, wearing white with splashes of gold, no touch of the usual scarlet...

He’d know her anywhere, even before she lifts the veil and those eyes make it unquestionable who it is.

Time slows to treacle, and it’s not Crowley’s doing, though he can do that. He might have done it just to get a few private words with her, if he thought of it. He doesn’t think of it. He can’t think of anything except that Aziraphale is here. After all this time. And staring at him as if her world has stopped too.

“Mother?”

The word drops like a pebble into a pool of water, small but shaking the surface. Crowley blinks, glances to Lancelot, sees the love and worry on his face as he looks at—

—at—

_Mother._

_Oh._

_Oh,_ **fuck**.

Everything snaps back into focus, and with that awareness comes all the noise. Talking, a lot of talking, excited murmuring, and bloody buggering hell they’ve just given the court exactly the kind of show they’ll never shut up about, haven’t they...

Then someone else takes him by the shoulders, and a somewhat wild-eyed Crowley looks at Arthur. Arthur, friend and companion of decades, with deepest concern in the depths of his eyes. “Are you well, Merlin?” the king asks in a quiet voice. Crowley can hear the other questions underneath: genuine worry, yes, but also less personal apprehension, a silent message. _You protect this kingdom as much as I do and I have never seen you this shaken—if there is a threat here, make it known to me at once._

“No,” he croaks, then shakes his head and tries again, resting a hand briefly on one of Arthur’s outstretched arms. “I mean… I’m fine, Majesty. Truly. Merely… ah, surprised. That is all.” His gaze is pulled back towards Aziraphale as though by a string, and he swallows. “You know I’ve been curious for years about the Lady of the Lake. I didn’t expect her to so suddenly appear.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, well aware that something much more significant has happened, but turns, placing a hand on Crowley’s back. “Then let me make her known to you. Lady Viviane, please allow me to present Merlin, prophet and wizard, our foremost advisor and dear friend. He was unfortunately absent on some magical business of his own when last you graced our court, and has often lamented the ill timing that averted your meeting. And Merlin, this of course is the Enchantress Viviane, Lady of the Lake and mother to our truest knight, Lancelot of the Lake.”

*

Aziraphale nearly sways on her feet.

She’s heard stories about Merlin—of course she has; despite living by a mysterious lake she’s in no way a hermit—but she would never have suspected he’s an angel. Not just some unusually wise human with a good constitution, an actual angel. 

Not just any angel, either, but _this_ angel.

(Five hundred years ago she used a scrap of cloth to wipe her mouth clean of the silver paint smeared on it from a single hurried kiss. It’s been miracled never to age or decay, and sometimes she opens a secret panel in her jewellery box and runs her fingers gently over it. For five centuries it’s been all she has of Crowley, and the sole piece of evidence that she hadn’t imagined that kiss.)

Her face grows hot, even as she draws in a breath in a mostly futile effort to calm herself.

“Merlin,” she begins, but it’s nearly a squeak. Aziraphale swallows and tries again. “Your reputation precedes you. I am—most deeply honored, to make your acquaintance.”

Carefully, half certain she’s about to discorporate at any second from an exploding heart, Aziraphale curtsies.

“Well met,” she says, rather more faintly than she intends.

At once Lancelot has his hands on her shoulders. The concern in his eyes is clear—clear enough to send guilt washing over her.

“Mother, are you well?”

“Yes, I—I’m sorry. It’s the weather, I think. And it was a long journey.”

“Please—” The voice this time is Guinevere’s. “Come have a seat by the fire, and something to drink.”

She lets Lancelot lead her to one of the castle’s great stone fireplaces, lets the Queen pour her a cup of strong sweet wine. And though she hears herself murmuring courteous thank-yous, every sound is overlaid with the furious pounding of her pulse.

_Crowley. Crowley. Crowley._

*

Crowley manages to nod, while inwardly thinking _not again, not this part, this stupid part where we pretend we don’t know each other and have only just been introduced..._ But then Lancelot has his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, and she turns to look at him and the affection between them is almost tangible, as real as any love Crowley’s ever seen between parent and child.

For five hundred years he’s wondered where Aziraphale was and what he was doing, but this turn of events he never, ever foresaw. The way everyone here calls him a prophet has never felt so inaccurate or ironic.

Guinevere leads the Lady of the Lake to the fireplace and gives her a cup. Crowley watches her raise the wine to her mouth and drink deep. His lips burn with memory.

“Merlin?”

Crowley turns, dazed, to find Arthur waiting expectantly. Automatically he nods and returns to his usual place near the throne, as Arthur seats himself once more. The queen will tend to this honoured guest; the afternoon’s work must continue.

Crowley hears nothing of any of it. Dimly he’s aware that he must look ten types of idiot, that Arthur knows, that he’ll get teased to Orkney and back later for his behaviour today. But all he can think of is Aziraphale, and the court assembly has never, never seemed so long.

*

The wine does little to settle her. Though a hidden part of Aziraphale resents the queen for breaking her son’s heart, she can tell Guinevere’s concern for her is real, that there is honest kindness in her soul. Not to mention she’s silently grateful the woman doesn’t press her about Merlin.

Merlin. Crowley. Crowley, here, all this time.

In retrospect, she thinks, she probably ought to have suspected sooner. Lancelot’s always described him as being curious, asking a thousand questions despite his great wisdom and power. But she’s long since hardened her heart against rumor and coincidence—those first hundred years were full of false alarms, and left her feeling bruised.

(A handful of times during the past few decades, Lancelot has asked if she’d ever been in love. Every time she’s given him the same answer. _Only once, with so much of my heart that I was nearly scattered like morning mist by the force of it. He was wonderful, his eyes bright as stars. And we were parted before I could tell him how much I loved him._ )

Crowley’s here. He’s here. She can almost feel him looking at her from across the room.

(She can almost feel his lips, that soft startled catch of breath against her own mouth. _Did I imagine it, or did you kiss me back that day?_ )

The very moment Lancelot is done speaking with Arthur and his friends, he makes his way back to Aziraphale. He’s never seen his mother quite so rattled, and he’s worried. She does feel a touch of guilt—this was supposed to be his big day, after all, and she’s nearly gone to pieces at the sight of an angel. But Lancelot only wants to make sure his beloved mother hasn’t taken ill.

The King and Queen invite her to dinner in the great hall. For once, Aziraphale declines politely: perhaps it would be better if she retired early, with a simple meal in her room. Guinevere courteously shows her to the guest quarters, finds her a room with a feather bed and fresh sweet-smelling rushes strewn on the floor. It’s quiet, and it’s warm, and in a little while a servant brings her a platter of meat and bread and cheese.

She picks at her food in silence, her heart still furiously shouting Crowley’s name, and wonders how long she ought to wait before slipping out to find him.

*

The usual order of things is for Arthur to pick a few people to closet himself with after these affairs, whether it’s new arrivals or close advisors or both, sometimes at once and sometimes scheduled in turns. Quite often Merlin’s presence is asked for, even at the most private of meetings. More than once Crowley’s turned himself into some unremarkable thing and been an unobtrusive and unknown presence at Arthur’s bidding, observing without being observed, so he can give the king his opinions later. Sparrow, for preference, or snake. Aziraphale’s questioning all those centuries ago has borne fruit there. Crowley doesn’t like changing his shape much, but it is very useful, and he hardly ever gets his tongue tied into a knot these days. Made for some interesting lessons when Arthur was a boy, too.

_Aziraphale._

It’s the only word he really hears for the rest of the afternoon, and no one has even spoken it. No one would know what it meant if they did.

Crowley isn’t at all surprised that Arthur, with only a raised eyebrow, summons him as soon as the audiences are done. He’s minimally surprised that apparently Arthur deems this conversation more urgent even than speaking with Lancelot out of the public way. It’s very tempting to fly off then and there in order to avoid it, not least when he sees Guinevere and Lancelot escorting Aziraphale in the opposite damned direction.

Very, very few are those trusted to be wholly alone with Arthur in his study without even guards present, but of course Crowley is one of the few. Only when the heavy door is shut does Arthur speak. “Merlin, what in God’s name—”

Crowley collapses into a chair before he can even finish. “We’ve met,” he says shortly. One of the greatest understatements of his existence.

Arthur only snorts. “That was fairly obvious, yes.” Crowley glares up at him, and the king crosses his arms over his chest. “It was that or that she’d enchanted you on sight, which I deem unlikely given that she was just as surprised and stricken as you. So. Who is she really?”

Crowley barks out a laugh at that, leaning forward and rubbing his forehead. “All she claims to be, no doubt. Just… more than that, as well.” He breathes in, shakily. “We’ve known each other… a very long time.”

There is silence for a moment, and then Arthur places a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Given my own conclusions about your age, my friend, that is a worrying statement.” Crowley’s mouth twists unhappily, and he says nothing. Arthur sighs. “Is she dangerous?”

Lord have mercy… impossible to answer that question easily. “Not to you, I trust, or to the realm,” he says quietly, hoping that he’s speaking the truth. “Not directly, for certain. And not to Lancelot, before you ask. She’ll protect him to the death.” Whose death, he doesn’t specify. [3]

Arthur grunts. “I meant, is she dangerous to _you_.”

_Whatever happens, I’m still your friend._

Crowley closes his eyes. “No.” It’s a whisper more than anything else. “No, she’s not a threat to me. Not the way you mean.”

There’s silence, then a long, heavy sigh as Arthur seats himself opposite Crowley. “And here I have always thought you were immune to the pangs of love, my friend. That you were above such small, mortal concerns, too busy with more esoteric matters.”

Crowley opens his eyes and smiles ruefully. “I don’t know that—” He stops, tries again. “If it’s that.”

“Yes, well, for someone so wise you do have some astonishing blind spots.” That dry sarcasm again, and this time Crowley glares openly at him, and Arthur grins back until Crowley can’t help it and smiles in return. Under the grey hair and the weight of the crown there’s still a boyishness to Arthur, an optimism that’s difficult to resist. It’s part of what’s made his Round Table a success, and it’s the core of what Crowley loves about him.

That, of course, and the delightful ease of long familiarity. It’s always rare in Crowley’s interactions with mortals, and a thing to be treasured. “Shut up, _your Majesty_ ,” Crowley retorts, letting himself be distracted back into something more like himself. “Or I’ll turn you into a newt.”

Arthur laughs, and they manage to actually attend to business for a while, until it’s time for dinner—an impromptu feast, to celebrate Lancelot’s return. When Crowley asks permission to abstain, Arthur nods his acceptance of this, but gives him too knowing a look. Crowley resists the urge to swat him for it mostly because they’re not in private anymore, having been joined by Guinevere and various others.

Guards patrol the halls of guest quarters, of course, and would no doubt see if anyone came to visit the Lady Viviane, and report on it or gossip about it or at least take note. But no one notices yet another bird perching on a windowsill outside, not even when it pecks at the wooden shutters to request entrance.

*

The servants have already brought in her things,[4] so Aziraphale decides to shed her white gown and surcoat for a soft robe with a fur collar.[5] She won’t sleep tonight, hasn’t slept for most of Lancelot’s life, but there is something oddly reassuring about getting ready for bed. Perhaps it’s a sort of internal permission to relax, learned from years of tucking in her son. Perhaps pyjamas, in any age, are just _nice_ to wear.

She’s just sitting down on her bed, half wondering if she should dig a book out of her trunk, when she hears a faint tapping at the window shutters.

At first she thinks she’s imagining it—she’s had to train herself not to hope too hard. But then the tapping sounds again, small and polite, and oh Satan, her heart hasn’t raced like this in what feels like forever.

_Crowley._

She glances at the door, waves a hand at it, listens to the lock seal itself shut. A veil of quiet falls over the threshold: no prying human ears will be able to hear them. Only then does she take a breath and speak.

“Just a moment,” she says, wincing at how fluttery she sounds. “Let me change.”

She snaps her fingers, and though the robe doesn’t alter, the body beneath it does. His hair remains long, a loose cloud hanging halfway down his back, but his face is the same one he’s always worn around Crowley.

When he opens the shutter he can’t help smiling. Just a little, lopsided smile, but there’s warmth in it all the same. The sparrow peering up at him from the sill has bright brown eyes, white cheeks, and black wings; there are markings on its forehead that look curiously like eyebrows.

“Good choice of bird,” Aziraphale says, and holds a hand out, palm up. “Come in.”

*

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale for a moment, head cocked to the side. It’s odd having a sparrow’s eyes instead of his own, but he’s learned the tricks of it by now.

Silently he hops onto Aziraphale’s palm, small clawed feet only barely pricking at the skin. He stays there for a moment as Aziraphale closes the shutters with his free hand, then alights again, wings across the room to one of the wooden chairs placed next to the small table where the remnants of Aziraphale’s dinner still wait to be collected.

The sparrow lands delicately on the back of the chair, turns around. Then there’s a shimmer and Crowley is standing there, hands gripping the chair until he forces himself to relax them.

There’s a moment of silence as they stare at each other. Aziraphale is himself again, instead of herself, though still with a waterfall of pale curls tumbling down his back. Crowley looks much as he always has, white and black, ruddy hair long and spilling all over the place.

It all feels… awkward, and Crowley doesn’t like that at all. This is the person he’s always been least awkward with, why do things feel strange now? He clears his throat. “Finally got the knack of that shapeshifting trick of yours.” He attempts a smile. “You were right, it is useful.”

*

Aziraphale’s smile quirks a little, despite the taut, thick awkwardness in the room.

“Told you your body would remember what it looked like,” he says. Despite everything else that’s happened he’s still desperately glad to see his best friend again, eager to make him laugh.

( _Are we friends anymore? Did I ruin it? I would give up any hope of more, if you would stay. I can’t give up wanting, but maybe I can teach myself to accept that this can never be. Please, please tell me you’re still my friend. Please._ )

“Lancelot’s told me quite a bit about Merlin.” It’s a fairly transparent attempt to grasp at some sort of normal catch-up, but he clings to it, trying to ignore how his lips tingle with remembered sensation. “Never would have thought it was you.”

( _I thought I’d put you aside, that you’d become a beautiful dream I could never grasp. I thought I’d found a way to deal with it. You always turn my plans upside down._ )

“I’m—I should probably clarify, I’m not on assignment. Or... not a real assignment, actually. Told the forces of Hell I’d raise him to be a pagan king. Of course Arthur and the rest of the court sort of wrecked that plan, but—you know human children rebel against their parents all the time. Am I babbling? I think I must be babbling, I’m sorry—”

*

Crowley listens to all of this, his mouth quirking up at the _told you so_ , and then again more broadly at the _pagan king_ bit, which is so bloody Aziraphalean[6], and ironic given that apparently Crowley’s thwarted him without even realising, and by the time Aziraphale wonders aloud if he’s babbling that quirked half-smile has turned into Crowley’s biggest, brightest grin.

It’s only a few quick strides across the room, and then Crowley’s embracing him, hard and tight, long arms wrapping around a stout but soft frame. The fur from Aziraphale’s collar nuzzles against Crowley’s neck, and a few wispy curls of hair touch his cheek. It feels like clicking into place, like some missing piece fitting where it’s supposed to be, and a tension Crowley’s been carrying long enough to forget it was there abruptly drains out of him. 

“I missed you, too.”

*

Crowley steps forward and hugs him, and Aziraphale’s brain grinds to a halt.

He’s convinced himself that he’s not affected by the memory of it anymore, but the truth is, he’s never forgotten the few times Crowley has held him. His whole body reacts to it, all his fear and anxiety abruptly dissolving in this burst of warmth. Aziraphale breathes in, fills his lungs with this wonderful nearness, and before he can fuss himself out of it his own arms wrap around the angel’s thin frame.

“If I’d known it was you,” he whispers, breath just stirring that fall of brown hair, “I would have come to court ages ago.”

*

Crowley's arms tighten further. “If I’d known it was you, I’d have found that damned _lake_ before now,” he says forcefully. “I’ve been meaning to for years! But I thought the notorious Lady of the Lake was just another of the local witches[7]—island’s bloody full of them, remind me to tell you about Mim sometime, she was a headache—and besides, from all I’d heard from Lancelot I was pretty sure you weren’t really one of the troublemakers, little did I know how I wrong I was _there_ , and I have _really_ missed you.”

Aziraphale is clearly not the only one who can babble.

*

Over the years Aziraphale has learned to find a unique comfort in hugging Lancelot—what parent doesn’t feel a little rush of happiness every time their child offers them affection? This, though, is different. It’s unexpected, impossible, wonderful in a way that strikes him to the soul.

(It takes a nearly-supernatural effort to keep himself from trembling. Crowley is warm, and he smells like green growing things and clean water, and Aziraphale thinks of silver paint clinging to his own lips. _I don’t know if we’re pretending it didn’t happen, and right now I don’t care, because it’s you, you’re back, you’re finally here._ )

“It’s so good to see you.” His own arms tighten. They’re nearly clinging to each other now. “Crowley.”

Probably no one at court has called him by his proper name in years—he doubts even Arthur knows him as Crowley—and Aziraphale hasn’t spoken it aloud even to himself since before Lancelot was born. He’s missed the taste of it on his tongue.

*

Crowley’s been living in one place for decades—not merely in the same country or the same city, but with the same people. It makes this assignment different to most others. For one thing, it allows for much deeper relationships with the humans around him, and living so closely among them means behaving more as they do. There’s been touch, a lot of it: hands shaken, shoulders clasped, kissing someone’s hand or cheek. And yes, embraces.

None were like this. None were as encompassing, as complete. None were from anyone who truly knew him. They couldn’t be. There’s never been anyone like Aziraphale, never.

_For someone so wise you do have some astonishing blind spots._

Crowley’s breath catches. He squeezes his eyes shut, then bends his head until it’s resting on the demon’s shoulder. “Aziraphale,” he says quietly, the syllables music to his ears. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

They stand together for what could be forever and definitely isn’t long enough before Crowley sighs and makes himself steps back. He keeps his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, however, and if he’s putting just a little distance between them, at least his smile is wholly unforced. “But how, _how_ in the name of everything holy _and_ unholy is it that you’re Lancelot’s mother?” His eyes glint with amusement. “I know, adopted mother, before you say it, but even so. Explains a lot about him, I must say. I should have guessed long ago.”

*

For the first time since his Fall he realizes he loves the sound of Crowley saying his name. Not what he used to think of as his real name, not the name of the angel who had been, but _his_ name. This is who he is now: Aziraphale, a demon whose best friend is an angel. Even if bits of Israfel linger, deep down at his core, he’s become someone new, someone Crowley deems worthy of trust and shared laughter.

Giddy, relieved joy begins to prickle under his skin. The last of the stricken look he’s been wearing since they first caught sight of one another fades into a soft, broad smile. His own hands slide to curl gently around Crowley’s forearms when he pulls back—Aziraphale can’t stop touching him. Not yet. Not yet.

“I wanted a change,” he says, unable to keep the edge of a laugh from his voice. “You know how it is—you get curious, and then, well, you do have the power so you might as well give it a go. And then I happened to run into a widow with a baby around the same time, and...”

Aziraphale finds a sudden, strange surge of emotion tightening his throat. The blue of his irises expands, making his eyes look even more feline.

“He’s made me so proud,” he manages, a touch hoarsely. “The bravest of Arthur’s knights, the kindest, the most perfectly courteous.” A thought occurs, and he half-giggles. “With a son like that, how would you ever suspect _me_ as his mother?”

*

Crowley's smile only warms further as he listens, as Aziraphale’s face softens with love and astonishment. The demon is always beautiful, infernally so, but he shines when he talks about Lancelot. Crowley feels privileged to see it.

(And perhaps a little envious. A little. A thought to examine later.)

He chuckles at the question. “All the charisma, of course. The boy charms everyone around him just by breathing. Also his wit, a few of his mannerisms, and how well he plays the harp. He can have half the court laughing or in tears with just a few notes.” He squeezes Aziraphale’s shoulders, smiling fondly. “He’s lucky to have you.” Crowley’s mouth quirks with sudden mischief. “Besides, are you trying to imply that you’re not brave, kind, or courteous? Because I could rebut all those points. Or better, I could call him in to do it for me; Lancelot has always been open about how much he loves and esteems his mother. And no wonder.”

*

Aziraphale’s smile turns slightly wry; his eyes glint with fond mischief.

“Calling in a biased witness doesn’t sound very Heavenly,” he teases, laughter bubbling under his tone, “but I suppose I can let it go, since it’s you.”

_You. Finally. Five hundred years of waiting and wondering, and here you are. Holding on to me._

His fingers tighten just a little on Crowley’s arms as he breathes through a sudden desire to run them through that soft long hair instead.

“You look good,” he blurts, and instantly wants to sink through the floor. “Well, I mean. You’re looking well. And Arthur’s quite the ruler. Very ambitious. The whole Round Table...”

With a start Aziraphale realizes his gaze has drifted to Crowley’s mouth. His pulse is going so fast it nearly feels like a hum vibrating through every muscle and bone. Oh Satan, he’s in an absolute state and it’s barely been a few minutes, he’s going to have to get a hold of himself.

“They’re lucky to have you, too. All of them.”

It’s one of the softest things a demon could say, and right now he can barely bring himself to care.

*

Something new happens at that small tease and the compliments: Crowley blushes. His face turns bright pink, his ears are almost red, and the back of his neck feels hot. And then Aziraphale is looking at his mouth, and Crowley can almost feel what it was like again, the hard press of lips and dizzying taste of shared breath and how is he meant to concentrate on anything at all ever again? 

Crowley lifts a hand to the back of his neck and scratches at it ruefully, hating how much he’s blushing. “Hope so,” he mumbles. Mumbling, damn it all. He sighs a little and offers up a small smile. “There’s a lot of things I’d have handled differently in retrospect, but… mostly it’s been going well. I think.” He remembers his sense earlier that an ending was approaching, but pushes it aside. “And Arthur’s a good ruler, yes. Good friend, too.” Not the best, not the standard by which all others are measured, but good. Crowley smiles warmly, looking into the distance somewhere for a moment. “I’m not his parent, not the way you are to Lancelot, but… been with him for decades now. Can’t help but feel proud of him.”

He looks back at Aziraphale for a moment, then grins. Withdrawing his hands, he makes a swift turning gesture, and is immediately holding two goblets and a bottle, which he offers up. “So, how about it? Catch up on things with me for a bit? It’s ages since we had a chance to drink together. And an advantage of having been here so long is having had time to build a stock of some really good vintages.”

*

The very second Crowley lets go of him, an emptiness rises against the inside of Aziraphale’s skin beneath his clothes. It takes real effort for a moment not to step forward, to try and bury himself in the angel’s embrace again. But the blush on Crowley’s face warms him through and through, makes his heart skip.

Aziraphale knows he changed things that day in Rome. He knows something is different between them. It’s just hard to tell how, at the moment, whether it means they’re moving towards an ending or something new.

Whatever else happens, though, they can have an evening to themselves. And Crowley isn’t angry with him, at least, and... and it’s so good, to hear Crowley’s voice, to watch the things his face does.

“That sounds perfect,” he says, and gestures at the little table where the remains of his dinner still sit. “What are we having tonight? Wine, beer, mead? The mead around here is excellent generally, though it’s been a poor season for honey, I hear.”

The fire that’s been quietly hissing in the fireplace begins to burn a little higher and brighter. Its light brings out the red highlights in Crowley’s hair, casts a faint gold glow over everything else in the room.

*

Something is changed. Crowley’s not going to deny it; he can already hear Arthur’s amused/disbelieving snort in his mind if he even tried. He’d like to understand it a bit more, though. If he can. If he can stop being so bloody distracted by blushing and a faster heart rate than usual.

“This one’s white wine,” he says, flinging himself into a seat with his usual haphazard carelessness. Fortunately the chair makes sure he doesn’t miss. “Could bring up some of the mead if you’d rather, though yes, not this year’s. Or we could do wine tonight and mead tomorrow.”

He looks up suddenly, his expression brightening. However strange things are, this is an opportunity they’ve never had. “That is—will you still be here tomorrow? Could you stay for a while, a few days at least? If you’re not on assignment, and you came with Lancelot… of course Arthur would be honored to let you visit as long as you like, and…”

Crowley’s voice trails off, but the hope in his face is obvious. They’ve never gotten to spend more than a day or two in each other’s company. Not once.

*

When Crowley looks up at him in hope it’s like watching a cloud roll away from a sky full of stars. Aziraphale is, for a moment, as dazzled as he was millennia ago on a hillside when an angel interrupted his solitary lunch.

_He wants me to stay. Wants me here. Wants to share a little more time. Even if he doesn’t want the other things I want, he wants us to spend time together._

Even if his knees are rather weak as he drops gently into a chair of his own, Aziraphale’s voice is resolute, his smile broad. 

“I didn’t have any plans worth keeping.”

Up until this moment he’s been planning to return to the Lake in the morning, but really—what’s the point, if he can spend time around his two favorite souls?

(Why would he run now, when he can sit at a table almost close enough to feel Crowley’s warmth, when he can watch a pink blush steal like sunrise over the angel’s face? What creature comfort could possibly compare to a few quiet moments with Crowley’s easy joy?)

“So, I think we can settle on mead tomorrow, and determine future vintages from there.”

*

Crowley lights up as though he’s been given some priceless gift: a melody, a unicorn fawn, a fig.

He laughs, the sound giddy with excitement. “I can show you my tower, if you like,” he says, putting the goblets on the table and uncorking the bottle. “I have a tower here. Filled with gratuitous wizardy things to impress the few people brave enough to climb all the stairs to get to it, it's absolutely ridiculous but I won't deny I have fun with it all. Tell me about your lake? Why a lake, why all the secrecy? I’ve been wondering for years. This is fantastic.”

He passes the goblet over, his face as brimful of delight as the goblet is with wine.

*

For just a moment, when joy sweeps over Crowley’s face, Aziraphale can taste silver paint and warm breath and Illyrian wine. And he’s very glad he’s sitting now, because that laugh has definitely made him weak in the knees.

“It’s a beautiful view, and the secrecy is fun,” he replies, his cheeks already beginning to ache with a grin as he takes the offered goblet. “As I see you’ve discovered with your wizard tower. But since I can tell you’re going to make me start from the beginning anyway...”

  


* * *

  


### Footnotes

1\. The cloak is subtly embroidered with black and silver threads in the shapes of stars and constellations, done at Wart's insistance long ago because otherwise 'how would anyone know Merlin was a wizard?' Crowley had found it a difficult question to argue against and decided that if he was stuck with it he'd at least make everything as accurate as possible. He flat out refused to wear at hat, however.↩

2. Bedivere and Crowley have always gotten along well, both having a fondness for exchanging interesting theories like “But what if the world was banana-shaped?” and wondering about ducks.↩

3. Unbeknownst to Crowley, he’s entirely correct. Aziraphale may let her son fight his own battles as a knight, but Lancelot’s childhood is full of stories about brushes with disaster that he miraculously escaped unharmed. Like, for instance, the time they went to a nearby village and a mad dog tried to attack Lancelot but dropped dead mid-lunge. However, the most notable instance of this motherly protectiveness will occur hundreds of years after Lancelot’s life is over. Moss Hart, director of the musical Camelot, suffers a non-fatal heart attack during the show’s out-of-town tryouts, while lyricist Alan Jay Lerner is hospitalized with a bleeding ulcer.↩

4. Most of the time she travels light—after all, she can pretty much grab a fistful of the universe and make it into something on the fly—but there are a few human-made objects to which she’s grown rather attached. Like a white wool cloak with yellow embroidered flowers and a scarlet lining of raw silk, or a harp carved by a master from across the sea in Hibernia. Or, rarer and more precious than anything else, a pair of comfortable shoes.↩

5. By this point Aziraphale owns quite a few fur collars and hats and cloaks, all the end result of her son’s hunting skills. She is, however, proudest of the feathered cape she’d had made the summer Lancelot decided he’d use the lake’s duck population as archery practice. Like any mother cat, she’s always taken intense pride in her boy’s gifts of dead animals.↩

6. In Crowley’s lexicon, it’s a word. Some things just can’t be described any other way.↩

7. The world has always had a number of humans who can do minor magics of their own, one way or another. Crowley usually shrugs and lets them be unless he has reason not to, figuring God has Her reasons. Like all humans, some are good, some bad, and most an incomprehensible mix of both.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Look if you didn't realize we were going to shoehorn in gratuitous Monty Python references everywhere I don't know what to tell you. I'm still figuring out where I can insert a description of Camelot as 'a silly place.' I'll find a way. Coconuts might be more difficult but may yet happen. The Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch is right out.
> 
> If you'd like to see an image of what Crowley looks like as a sparrow, it's [something like this](https://i.pinimg.com/474x/a2/83/8f/a2838f9334b37928f477c78174ec1c6d.jpg). 
> 
> I apologize for this chapter being delayed, and apologize more that I'm not sure when the next one will arrive. But at least you get this giant hulk of a chapter. We thought of splitting it in two but decided we liked it too much as it is. =)
> 
> Aziraphalean absolutely is a word in my lexicon (and my mobile phone's dictionary), as is Crowlean. Sometimes they're just the only descriptors possible.
> 
> Take care of yourselves and each other, hope this bit of writing was an enjoyable read for you. =) -Ashfae"
> 
> “The thing about the musical version of Camelot is true—Moss Hart died the year after Camelot opened, and while Lerner and Loewe worked together again, their careers essentially tanked after Camelot’s success. It seems to be sort of a miracle the show actually got off the ground at all. (And funny enough, as far as I know, no other Arthurian musical except Monty Python’s Spamalot has ever been a success on Broadway or the West End...)
> 
> We hope you’ll enjoy our stay in King Arthur’s court for a while! Please stay safe, wash your hands/wear a mask, and take care of yourselves. <3 -Goose”


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